LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



%n^. @ j?4Uji ' l0l|i !f c* 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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IDLE 



RHYMINGS 



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Colleetion of Thoughts Jotted 

Dow^n In Leisure 

Moments. 



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BY JOHN H. MACKLEY. 



JACKSON, OHIO, 
1885. 





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IDLE BHYMIXGS. 







* Page 

Lesson of The Brook 5 

Decoration 6 

Surprise Party to Capt. L. A. Atkinson 7 

"Bob White!" 8 

Gathering Hazels 9 

My Treasure 10 

Child's Song of Prayer , 12 

The Old Drum . ' '. 13 

Song of The Furnace 14 

Ou the Death of VI rs. Nancy Osborne 16 

Home Thny Brought Her Statesman Dead 17 

"She Has A Bad Name !" 18 

Deacon Slasher on Class Meeting 19 

The Humnn Watch 22 

Spring 23 

My Missionary Work . 24 

Old Soldiers" Letters 26 

Free For All 27 

'•I WantSomeCloVs" 29 

Harvest Time 30 

Rain 3a 

The Cry From The Cliff 84 

The Grave By The Brooklet 35 

Sunlight 37 

The Widow's Song 38 

The Mother Watches 39 

By the Death Bed 41 

"The Old Karm House F.>r Me." 43 

The Winter King 44 

Blackberry ing 46 

That Little Grave Tpon the Hill 47 

The Day of life 48 

The "Cottage Rose" 50 

Fallli g Leaves 51 

The Old Church Bell 54 

The Old Deserted Shaft 55 

The ^Marked Beach 57 

My Mother's Picture 59 

Deacon Slasher on Shows 60 



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••Half-Mast The Flag I" . 
The Land of Lieht 
Children's Song 
Silver Bells 
Beecher Gops Wrong 
Only A Broken Heart 

All tnmn Days 

A Fireside Reverie 
The Girl Was I'oor 

The Better light 

The Truthful Orator ... 

The Goal Miner 

The Rime of The Ancient Grank 

A Woodland Reverie 

Remember the Poor 

The Farmer i' King 

The Book Agent 

Heroic Bluebird 

Passing Thoughts 

Keep a Trusting Heart 

American Whisky 

The Last 'Good Niurlit I" 

Farmer Bligh's New Years Reverie 

The Church Debt 

Thf Saf'e Light House 

Foot Prints 

■"Merry Christmas'" 

One Christmas— N"t Mfrry 

Respeit the Aged . . . 

■"Texas Jim" 

••School is out!" 

The Old I^ort 

The Robin's Song 

On the Death of Mrs. Tripp 

A Passing Cloud 

To a Canary 

Flowers 

Joy 

Thi- Death Stream 

Thp Tattered Coat . 

Evening 

The VillHgeof the Dead 



IDLE RHYMUGS. 






Telegraphers' ReuniDii 13:i 

The Drunkard 134 

Shattered Homes 1S5 



"Tom's Train Is In"— On the Death of Conductor Tom Jones .. . 

ToMyWife 

Ga'fleld Memorial Services 

The Wanderer's Return . 

AVhat The Breezes Sing 

The Death Trap 

•"Ours!" 

Blood Stains 

Thankssiviug . 

"a The Death of a Dear Friend 

The Home Against The Saloon 

Who? 

The Sparrow 

A Summer Rt-verie . . 

On The Death of a Little Friend . . 

•■The Old Backlog Is Burning Still." 

The Curse of Rum 

On a Golden Wedding 

Fallen! 

The Crown of Aiituiiin 

To Harry, Sleeping 
The Horrors of Drink 

Thanksgiving 

The Deadly Mine 

The Rerl Bird 

On TheDoaih of Mrs. Crumlt 

Lines— On The ►'ropo' ition to Remove The Remains of a Child 

The Martin's Song 

Lines on The Death of Miss Maggie Knox • 




Entered according to act of Congress, 

in the year 1885, by J. H. Mackley, in the office of the Librarian of 

Congress, at Washington. 



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11>LK BHYMINdS. 




LESSON OF THE BROOK. 



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Swiftly rtows the silver stream, 
Onward toward the river's tide ; 

Shines the sun with fitful j^leani. 
l^ri<?htly on it's pebl)ly side. 

Ruggred rocks may har its way. 
Drift-wood lod)?e ag-ainst its shore : 

Yet, without the least delay, 
"Will it flow forever more. 

Fiercest Ijlasts of winter's cold, 
May its shining face cong'eal ; 

Still, within the icy hold, 
"Will it's waters onward steal. 

"\^'inds it's channel 'round al)Out, 
Runs it's waters here and there ; 

Till at last it rushes out 
On the ri\er l)road and fair. 

As the l)rooks that never die. 
May our lives as steady run — 

Rock and drift rush swiftly by 
Till the smoother stream is won ! 

May we row with steady hand 
O'er the river's g'entle swells — 

Reach in safety that brig'ht land 
"Where the (rreat Jehovah dwells I 




IDLE RHYMINGS. 




'DECORATION" 



OF TlIK GRAVES OF THE DEAD WHO FELL IN THE WAR I'OR 
THE DEFENSE OF THE TNION. 



Cover them over with flowerets bright. 

Strew thickly the snowy numbers I 
On each darlv bed hiy a mantle of white. 

To show wher(} a hero slumbers. 

Softly ! Tread softly ! With bated l)reath ! 

For a sacred presence hovers, 
With fairy wings, o'er this scene of death. 

Where the sod each brave heart covers. 

Ah, why those show^ers of Ijitter tears. 
On their moimds of damp earth falling? 

High over their heads a light appears. 
And a Heavenly voice is calling. 

Calling away from the battle's roar. 
From the sal)er's deadly flashing ; 

To fields where the braves shall hear no liiore 
The cannon's murderous crashing. 

While we now bedeck their mouldering clay 
^Vith the flowers that (Jod hath given. 

"Tis sweet to think that their spirits to-day 
Are crowned with the joy of Heaven. 

'Tis sweet to hope that never, again, 
May the rage of conflicting powers 

( 'ause us to cover the gallant slain. 
With mantles of Spring-time flowers. 



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IDLE RHYMIXGS. 




SLRPRISE PARTY! 



rnvKN TO CAPT. L. A. ATlilNSON. 



>Vhat journey o'er life's way hath been so darl';. 

So sadly void of every cheerinje: light, 
IJut there hath been, at times, a glimmering' spark 

To cheer the heart, and make the world look bright V 

TIow sweet the home where Peace her A\'ings hath 
spread. 

And bright Contentment hovers o'er the scene — 
Where happy sunset's loveliest rays are shed. 

AlK)ve, around, in brightly golden sheen I 

'Tis doTd)ly sweet, where two glad souls as onp. 

Are sailing on life's river side by side, 
To see two hearts approach life's setting sun 

While naught within but Love and Jov abide. 



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Such is the home of which I sing to-night, 
A home where Christian graces richly dwell ; 

Day after day, about this hearth-stone bright. 
In songs of praise, pure Cristian voices swell. 

Oh, lovely picture ! may it never cease 
The highest soul ambition to inspire — 

And may it's Author fill our souls with peace. 
And till our souls with endless Christian tire I 




IDLE RHTMINGS. 




"BOB WHITE!" 



Merrily echoes, from field and wood. 
The warning: call to the hiding brood. 
As, haughtily perched on the topmost rail. 
Merrily j)ipes the vigilant quail: 

"Bo1> White! B-o-l), B-o-1) AVhite !" 

Over the wheat-field's ripening grain. 
Over the ineadow.'s emerald plain, 
Cheerily floats, from the briar frail, 
The welcome note of the merry quail : 

"Bob White ! B-o-b, B-o-b White !" 

Close to the edge of the busy town 
This smnmer eve, when the sun goes down, 
I hear ft Hoat through the twilight pale, 
The happy note of the joyous quail : 

"Bob White ! B-o-b, B-o-b White !" 

Like all God's creatures, he has his share 
Of earthly labor and earthly care ; 
Yet all earth's troul)les will not avail 
To kill the song of the happy quail : 

"Bob White ! B-(")-b, B-o-l . AVhite !" 



Oh, happy the bird ! And happy the note, 
Pouring forth from his striped throat I 
Xo matter if earthly cares assail, 
Victorious sings the merry quail : 

"]?()b White : B-o-l), B-o-b White 



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IDLE RHYMIXGS. 






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(iATHEKlN(; HAZELS. 

Xow comes the yellow Fall again, 

I see the showering' leaves. 
And' hear the chilling, wintry rain, 

Fast (lrii)i)ing from the' eaves ; 
Dear Marth., 1 see the dark clouds i)lay. 

With many a lowering- frown, 
Above the wood, where, many a day, 

We've^iithered hazels brown. 

There first we told our youthful love, 

Each to a willing ear, 
While, from approving oiiks above. 

Fell bird-scmgs sweet and clear ; 
How swiftly flew the happy hours. 

How sweet the sun went down, 
As, underneath the golden show'rs. 

We plucked the hazels l)rown ! 

Though many a busy year has passed — 

Years fraught with joy and pain, 
This heart will yearn, while life shall last. 

For those sweet scenes again ; 
And oft-times in the dreary hours 

Within the busy town, 
I long to see the leafy showers, 

And pluck the hazels brown. 

How swiftly all these years have fled ! 

Xow we are growing old. 
And silver soon upon your head 

Will take the place of gold ; 
Yet still these hearts beat just as warm, — 




LIIIUJIIMJC^ 



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IDLE BHYMINGS. 






S^g^SS^SSiiiS^il^ 




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Though swift our sun goes down — 
As when, unknown to cloud or storm, 
We gathered hazels l)rown, 

Dear Marth., we've much to live for still, 

Though evening shadows play, 
We may our lives with l)eauty till, 

In this their closing day ; 
And we may rest each weary head 

Beneath a golden crown. 
When other hands come in our stead, 

And pluck the hazels brown. 
The Father who so loved us then. 

And tilled our lives with l)liss. 
Will lead us by the hands again. 

In better worlds than this ; 
And He will make our Heavenly ways — 

When this life's sun goes down — 
Brighter than when, in those bright days. 

We plucked the hazels brown. 

. = <>— ^ ^.<>o. 

BIY TREASURE. 

"WJiosoeoer therefore shall humble him 
self as this little child, the same is greatest 
in the kingdom ofheavenr—u&n. is— 4. 

There's a flashing of dimpled fingers 

Before the hearth-stone bright, 

And a picture of childhood lingers, 

And plays in the glaring light ; 

And the little hands 

Weave golden bands 

Around our hearts to-night. 



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Xowithroufjh the light udviincing', 

Patter those little feet; 
And I see the shadows dancing 
Over the face so sweet ; 

And the bright eyes beam 
In the flre-light's gleam, 
As their merry glance I greet. 

With a love that knows no chilling 

I look for that sunny head ; 
And, my heart with rapture filling, 
1 list for the merry tread, 
And the noisy play, 
At the close of day, 
"When the sun's last rays are tied. 

The life of that little treasure 

Is a sermon, pure, to me ; 
And I look with a boundless pleasure 
On the bursts of childish glee 
For the Lord of Heaven 
To her hath given 
An angel's purity. 

Oh that the guileless beauty 

That 'round our childhood plays, 
Might keep us true to our duty. 
And brighten our fading days — 
AVhen the shadows fall, 
And the angels call. 
We mav live with God alwavs. 



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IDLE BHYMINGS. 



»i^^HElr ^ *• ^Hur Ai^^lKIr *r^.AIElr jkt^^lKIr AC~^IKw aI'^HKw 



CHILD'S SONG OF PRAYER. 

Let us sing', let us sing-. 
While our hearts are lig-ht and free. 

Song's of love, God al)ove. 
For the debt we owe to Thee. 

Let us watch, let us M'atch. 
Lest our feet should ever stray. 

In the strife of this life, 
From the straight and narrow M'ay. 

Let us pray, let us pray, 
That the Father's mighty hand 

Be our guide from this side 
Over to the better land. 

Let us hope, let us hope — 
Let our faith reach to the skies — 

That at last, sorrows past, 
We may dwell in Paradise. 

Let us trust, let us trust. 
In the Savior's precious word ; 

Then we may, every day, 
Find the favor of our Lord. 




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IDLE RH y MINGS. 



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liiteiEKaBite^aB^ai^Bi^BiiwflaiiS^aiKiiK 



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THE OLD DRUM. 

The old (Iruiu luing's n))()n it's rack, 

A relic.' dim and brown — 
In memory it takes us back. 

We hear in every town 
It's "K-r-nnnmity, tummity. tumi)le," 

Echoino; up and down. 

AVith broken cord, and battered rim, 

And "snares" all broken short, 
A stroke upon the calf-skin dim 

Gives but a dull report — 
"R-r-rummity, tummity. tumple" — 

A dull and sad report. 

Faint letters on it's painted face, 

A gallant story tell, 
( )f many a day, and many a place, 

Where striving- heroes fell — 
Wlnle "r-r-r-rumple, r-r-r-rumple, r-r-r-rinnl)le," 

Arose in l)oisterous sM'ell. 

Where a thousand braves were stricken low 

On the blood-besprinkled plain, 
When the shades of night were settling, slow. 

O'er the ghastly heaps of slain. 
It's "t-r-r-ummity-tum, t-r-r-ummity-tum." 

Called to them in vain. 

When the welcome tidings came at last, 

From bloody Southern fields — 
"The strife is ended — the danger past. 

The gallant foemen yields !" 




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IDLE BHYMINGS. 




Then "r-r-nuiiple-tuui-tuiii, r-r-nniiiil(Muin-tuin," 
The (Iruiiniier the ebony wields. 

When the boys c;unehouie with victory tliished. 
With laurels nobly earned, 
When loving ones watched, with breathing hushed. 
For those for M^houi they yearned. 
It's "left— right ! left— right !" 
Told of the braves returned. 

There is a drummer who beateth time 

For the souLs that are marching on ; 
He calls us to join the army sublime — 

"Fall in ! or the chance is gone"— 
Then "left— right ! Left— right !" 

We'll march till the battle's won. 
Oh, may the Captain who guides our feet 

Toward a camp in the hetter land. 
Ever find us marching to steady beat 

By the Infinite Drummer'.s hand : 
"Left— right! Left— right !"' 

A brave, determined band. 

SONG OF THK FURNACE. 

All the day long — throughout the night, 

You may see my glaring eye : 
You may hear the sound of my roaring might. 

As the "blast" goes rushing by. 

You may hear the wheeze of my jjonderous breath. 

Day in, day out, the same; 
Vet stand aloof— my embrace is death. 

For I l)reathe the roaring fiame. 






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StroiifJ: men pause, ere they i)ass alonji'. 
And look the wonder they feel. 

To hear the "puff" of my noisy sonff. 
And view my flying wheel. 

Toilers are delving-, day Ijy day. 

Into the hill's great store ; 
'Tis food for me they are bringing away. 

In the masses of weighty ore. 

All over the world my work is sent, 

It is fonnd on sea and land ; 
While, in labormg here, iny life is spent. 

The scope of my. work is grand. 

Without me. Science and Art were dead, 
And Industry's banner furled ; 

The glaring light, from my great eye shed. 
Is the soul of the l)usy world. 

Thus, day after day, night after night. 
Roars my vigorous blast ; 
While ever is seen the Ijrilliant light 
That over my work T cast. 

Oh. that mortals would patiently work along 
With hearts as strong as inine— 

That day and night we might hear their song. 
And see their bright lights shine. 

May they take from the world the ores of sin, 
And melt them in Christian flame ; 

May each in the world's great struggle win 
The joy of a Christian name I 




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IDLE BHYMINGS. 




ON THE DEATH OF NANCY OSBORNE. 



Again I see the dark Deatli Ano'el lly. 

I hear the swift rush of his wings ; 
Strong hearts are aciiing, while swift he goes 1)\. 

With the terror and sorrow he brings. 

Again to the same l)roken field does he eonie. 

And gathers, with merciless hand, 
Another l)right sheaf from this sorrowing home. 

And bears it away^from the land. 

Away, swift away, has the Death Angel tlown— 

Away with that spirit so bright ; 
With love has he placed it l)efore the great throne, 

All bathed in a heavenly light. 

Not in vain the Great lieaper his dread visit makes. 
Not in vain leaves a pathway of gloom ; 
For, every l)right flower that from us he takes 
Shall through all Eternity l)l()(mi. 

While the lonely com])anion still tarries below, 
And awaits the great call that will come. 

He knows that ere long (iod will call him to go. 
And meet with his loved ones at home. 

For thus does this Reaper, who cuts down'the flow'rs. 

Transplant them with tenderest care- 
Though doomed to death in this sad world of ours. 
Thev shall live through Eternity there. 




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IDLE RHYMINGS. 



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HOME THEY BROUGHT HER STATESMAN 
DEAD ! 



ON THE BRINfiING OF THE REMAINS OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD 
FROM NEW JERSEY TO OHIO. 



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The maddening surf still l)eiits upon the shore, 
The gloomy storm-cloud hangs above the sea ; 

From Elberon the tidings come no more, 
That erstwhile cheered the hearts of you and me. 

Along the rails the crape-decked palace flies, 
And sobs, heart-rending, blend with rushing steam ; 

The wail of millions reaches to the skies, 
And hangs about us like some horrid dream. 

Back, through the fatal place where Garfield fell, 
Is carried now the senseless lump of clay ; 

While strong men weep to hear the "dead-march" 
swell. 
And war-worn heroes turn in grief away. 

His honored name, on History's brightest page 
By fair Columbia traced, in letters bold, 

He died — yet he wall live, through every age — 
And oft the story of his life be told. 

And while we bow around his grave to-day. 
And lay his form beneath it's native sod, 

AVe know that now he lives, in endless day. 
And rests, in joy eternal, with his God. 




18 IDLE BHYMINGS. 






'SHE HAS A BAD NAME !" 



"Let not them that are mine enemies urrongfvlly 
rejoice over me ; neither let them tvink with the eye 
that hate me without a cause." — Ps. 35-19. 



Oh, who shall repair the poor heart-strings that break 

At the fear of Sociesty's frown ? 
What man or M^hat woman will dare undertake 
To censure the efforts self-righteous ones make 

To drag the unfortunate down? 

In the world she is friendless — no sad eyes shall weep 

When she flies from the cross to the crown ; 
Though her life be as pure as the zephyi's that sweep 
O'er the flowers, that reptile. Suspicion, may creep 
And drag the unfortunate down. 

Soft lips and soft heads, that may never have known 
Aught of joy, save Fashion's renown. 

May wrong one whose life is as pure as their own; 

And add to the measure of cruelty shown 
In dragging unfortvmates down. 

Small feet hasten by when she moves o'er the street. 

Small hands closely draw the rich gown ; 
Lest, by contact with her, they be thought indiscreet 
While snudl painted lips, by Fashion called sweet. 
Cry the poor luifortunate down. 

Though a villain may start the dread rumor that flies. 

Like a whirlwind throughout the town. 
The voice of our "circle" — luvw loudly it cries ! 




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We must mock the poor spirit, and laugh at its sighs, 
And drag the unfortunate down. 

Ah, where does that river of Charity tiow, 

Where she all her troubles may drown? 
Is there no sacred place where her poor heart may 

glow 
With the pr()uii)tings of friendship — and meet not the 
blow 
That strikes the unfortunate down ? 

When through the dai-k valley our Savior had passed, 

And emerged from the sepulchre's frown, 
From uiomanly eyes the first welcome was cast — 
Fair woman, who had at the cross been the last — 
'Tis she whom the world would drag down. 

Let us lift up the fallen, and strengthen the weak, 

If oi;r own lives with joy we would crown; 
Let each live a life that is Christ-like and meek. 
For, with God in our hearts, we never will seek 
To drag the unfortunate down. 

DEACON SLASHER ON "CLASS MEETING!" 



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^lartha, dear, I beg of you, let this one Sabbath pass 
AVithout continual teazin' of me to go to "Class" ; 
I know you think it duty, but then, sometimes, you 

know. 
In performances of duty I am prone to l)e too slow. 
I want to seek salvation, and live a Christian life. 




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IDLE BHYMINGS. 




And keep my own immortal soul*iibove all worldly 

strife, 
But I've learned, from observation, that you cannot 

always tell 
A righteous man by what he says — and, Martha, it is 

well. 
I have myself got up to give my "testimony" in. 

And I have felt, while doin' so,"that I was free from 

sin, 
Yet when I come to think it' o'er, and view the 

matter right, 
I fear my stock of righteousness! would illy bear the 

light ; 
Then there's Deacon Bluffrshoves up his cheek and 

says that he is sure 
That all within his righteous heart is absolutely pure; 

And when the Deacon ' settles down, relapsing into 

sleep, 
His testimony upward goes, and makes the angels 

weep. 
Then Brother Baldy bounces up, and tells,, with 

solemn face. 
That "down the-Western slope of life" he rims with 

rapid pace ; 
And thus he tells, in solemn tones, with many a 

blinkjand' frown. 
That, while he should be climbing-rtp, he's swiftly 

sliding. (Zoww; 
And as with Baldy and with Bluff, it runs the whole 

way through, 




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Each speaks of his own j)urity, but tells us nothing: 

new. 
I have no doubt but (Jod rfoes^ive His blessings, rich 

and free, 
Toallwhoji-o to Him in faith— I know He's kind 

to me ; 
But, though from every "Class" our loud professions 

upward roll, 
Our uiorks must be our Christian c\'A\\n'^—xcords can- 
not save a soul. 
And, Martha, people irill l)eyond the mere profession 

look — 
They care not for tlie title-page, they want to read 

the l)ook ; 
And if our earthly records are made up of sin and 

crime. 
In making loud professions we only waste our tim(^ ; 
How sad, should I get up and say that I am sanctified, 
To hear some one who knows me hiss : "The wretch, 

he knew he lied !" 
80, Martha, I have thought it l)est for me to stay 

away. 
And in the quiet of my home to daily watch and pray. 
And ever try to keep the i)ath l)y all true Christians 

trod — 
The path that leads away from sin, and leads us up to 

God. 
You may, my dear, do as you please, but let this 8al)- 

bath pass 
Without continual teazin' me— I cannot go to "Class." 



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IDLE RHYMINGS. 



mrip,:fw: 





THE HU3I.\N WATCH. 

The Human Watch is ever going-. 
Marking time with steady beat — 

Every noble impulse showing 
To the friends we chance to meet. 

Ne'er the breath of Winter freezes 
This swift-going Watch of ours ; 

Summer suns, nor Autumn breezes, 
AVinter snows nor Springtime show'rs- 

Can deface it's trusty dial, 
Or destroy it's hidden springs ; 

In the midst of every trial. 
Swift it's beating ever rings. 

Often cold and often cheerless, 

Is the air we find it in ; 
Yet with steady beat and fearless 

Huns the tiny works within. 

Never stops it — never pauses — 
Never dims it's shining face, 

Till Death's blighting finger causes 
The decaying of it's case. 

Swift the moments it is counting- 
Moments that we cannot save — 

Every obstacle surmounting 
As it times us to the grave. 

If by Irwe we keep it going. 
Keep it's dial ever bright. 




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IDLE RHY MINGS, 



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■We may have the joy of knowing 
That our Wateh is ever rvjht! 

For, this AA'atch our lives is timing, 
It but once can stop or start ; 

Ever running, ever chiming — 
It is hut The Human Heart. 

SPRING! 

In the maple trees the husy bees 

Xow merrily, merrily hum ; 
Through all the day, from birds at play, 

Melodious warblings come. 

Reckless of risk, the squirrels frisk 

l^pon the elm-tree's boughs ; 
With clover sweet the pastures greet 

The lazy, happy cows. 

Flowerets bright now greet the sight, 

Upon the meadows green, 
The streams gush clear — for Spring is here. 

That joyous rural queen. 

How soft the air ! The skies, how fair ! 

How sweet the early flowers ! 
As the cherry trees nod in the breeze 

Their petals fall in showers. 

May my heart of sin ne'er cease within 

A song of praise to sing — 
And may I hold, through Winter's cold. 

The joy I feel in Spring ! 




MY MISSIONARY WORK. 



Through the church door, swinging' wide, I see the 

people go, 
While in the belfry tall the ])ell is swinging to and fro; 

And when at last the doors are closed— the bell no 

longer rings, 
Down the long aisle the music floats, from where the 

choir sings. 
I hear the earnest pastor preach in language strong 

and true, 
And feel convinced God has, somewhere, a work for 

me to do ; 
So, with a strong, a new-l)orn zeal, I lift again my 

cross. 
And seek, with earnest heart, to save some precious 

soul from loss ; 
But when I seek to point the way which leads to 

endless bliss. 
Oft-times the sinner makes reply in language such 

as this : 

"There is no God !" with a startled ear 

I hear the pitifid accents fall, 
And I grieve for the heart which hath no fear 

For the solemn sound of the Judgment call. 

"There is no Hell !" with a brazen tongue 

I hear the Infidel sinner say ; 
And the soul from which the sad words sprung 

Is idling the precious time away. 




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IDLE RHY MINGS. 



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"There is no Clirist, no Cross, no Hope ! 

Xo Crucitixion was ever jjj'iven, 
To save the mortals M'ho lilindly ^rope 

Their errinjir way toward a Bil)le Heaven." 
"There is no phice where the Demons })h\rk 

Revel on lieds of liery coals, 
While their fiendish laughter is answereil Itack 

In the horrible shouts of dyinia: souls.." 
"I have no fear, for my soul is calm— 

I know that I never shall live ag'ain; 
Preach not to me of the Bleeding- Lamb, 

Slain to atone for the sins of men !" 
^Vhat can lie said to such a man V I go upon my way. 
And trust that to his wicked heart may come a 

better day ; 
For. when his life draws to a close, when shadows 

thickly fall. 
Oh, //h"» his frightened soul will long to hear the 

gospel's call ; 
And when the mortal fr<une draws near it's home 

beneath the sod. 
The soul immortal keenly feels there is a righteous 

(lod. 
I know the meanest soiU .sometime, will tui-n to 

lietter things — 
And in a wicked heart, at last, a hope of pardon 

springs ; 
Hut oh, let every heart turn n.of(\ while in the 

Church-l)eirs chime 
We hear the sweetly-solenni call : ''Behold, noui is' 

the time!" 






The Springtime comes, with robes of beauteous green, 
And flowerets bright spring from the yielding 
ground. 

My eyes with joy survey the glorious scene 
That lies in all it's gorgeous tints around. 

The daisy's tiny flower, the violet's stem. 
The l)lue-bells nodding to the summer breeze ; 

The fragrant rose, the hawthorne's snowy gem, 
The apple blossoms on the orchard trees — 

These lovely scenes with pleasure do I see, 
Nor these alone, but many an added charm ; 

Oh, Heavenly beauty — was it made for me, 
To cheer my sinking heart, and keep it warm ? 

Yet such a scene as this it's sadness ])rings — 
Every rose must have it's sharpened thorn ; 

The l)ird that loudest and most sweetly sings 
May force it's music from a heart forlorn. 

With the Springtime flowers there comes to me 
Voices long unheard, but well-known still ; 

Bringing back the stormy times Avhen we 
Together marched o'er Southern vale and hill. 

Oh, troublous times ! I love to think again, 
Upon those days of mingled griefs and joys, 

When, on the "roll," we all were classed as "men" — 
While in our hearts we kept the name of "boys." 

At blare of bugle, or at tap of drum, 
How oft we gathered in the steady line ! 



'4 1^> 



J- 



maas^isxama 



> 



I hear them yet— but do these memories come 
To other hearts, as now they come to mine? 

Ah, it must be that we shall meet no more ! 

Those other hearts are scattered like the sand ; 
Many are mustered "on the other shore," 

And beckon to me with a comrade's hand. 

Up from the Southern pine-tree's lonely shade, 
Their voices come, familiar now as when. 

Their shattered frames on beds of anguish laid. 
They faintly whispered "we shall meet again." 

Oh, when the last great trumpet-note shall sound, 
And Heaven and earth shall hear it's music clear, 

May we again, all safely gathered 'round, 
A solid line at "roll-call" answer ''Here !" 

— •»<>— ^■^■>«>" — 



I 



FREE FOR ALL 1 

"They that are tohole have no need of the physician, 
hut they th at are sick. I came not to call the righ teous, 
hut sinners, to repentance."— isinr^ 2-17. 

"I know 'tis the message the gospel brings,— 
'Tis the call of the Savior which sweetly rings, 
And calleth from earth to holier things, 

So rich, so full and so free ; 
I know 'tis the song which the angel sings — 

But not for me — oh, not for me !" 

"I know that for sinners the Savior died — 
For sinners the voice from the garden cried ; 




28 IDLE BHYMINGS. 



■teJIBI 



'Twas sin that drew from His wounded side 
That tiowing lilood so free ; 

For sin is that precious blood applied — 

But not for me — oh, not for me !" 

The' Father who noteth the sparrow's fall, 

Will ever list to His children's call — 

Xot one of His creatures may be too small 

For His loving eyes to see : 
'Tis said that His blessings are free for all — 

But not for me — oh, not for me !' 



Not for thee? Oh, the sinful thought I 
'Twas thy redemption which Jesus brought. 
And thy salvation by Him was wrought 

When He groaned upon the tree ; 
And a mansion fair by His blood was bought— 

Now it waits for thee — it waits for thee. 

For thy poor soul has The Spirit striven, 
For thee are the ties of sorrow riven ; 
And that precious life was freely given 

To make thy spirit free ; 
Now on His throne, in the light of Heaven, 

He waits for thee— He waits for thee, 

Thoiigh sin may have left thee many a scar, 
Though the light of His love still shines afar, 
But claim the promise— the gate's ajar. 

And His mercy fidl and free ; 
And merrily sings each twinkling star : 

"He waits for thee — He waits for thee !" 




1^ 



\ 




I« 



"I WANT SOME CLO'ES I" 



[While the ladies were sewiiij? for the needy, at the 
M. E. Church, a little hoy came in. "What do you 
want, my little man V" Hsked one of the ladles. Look- 
ing around the room, then at his poor attire, he re- 
plied : "I want some clo'es!"] 

"And ivhoso shall receive one such little 
cldld in my name receiveth me."— Matt. is-n. 



Rags but poorly shield the form 

From the beating winter storm ; 

Poorly clad the little feet 

Shuffle o'er the snowy street ; 

To the Church he goes to-day, 
Tremblingly we hear him say : 

"I want some clo'es !" 

Though to outward view distress'd, 

Still beneath that tattered vest 

Beats a heart as warm and true 

As poor mortal ever knew ; 

Every heart should warm to-day, 
To hear the little stranger say : 

"I want some clo'es !" 

What a hopeless life to lead— 

Xone to see his urgent need ! 

Those who hear his plaintive cry 

Hear it but to hurry by, 

While upon the wintry air 
Float the accents of despair : 

"I want some clo'es !" 



30 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 




Yet the shorn lamb's needy plight 
Brings the Father, in his might, 
"WTio may do whate'er lie will. 
Who can l)id the storm "be still," 
Now the milder breezes play, 
Still we hear the stranger say : 

"I want some clo'es !" 

Now the God who dwells on high 
Hears and heeds the plaintive cry ; 
'Tis a human soul that calls, 
'Tis a sweet response that falls — 
For, to angels' hearts, to-day. 
Does the little stranger say : 

"I want some clu'es !" 

Clad in raiment soft and warm, 
Now defiant of the storm, 
Goes he forth with songs of love — 
Praise to Him who reigns above ; 

And with gladdened hearts, to-day. 
We may drive the soiind away : 

"I want some clo'es !" 

HARVEST TIME. 



The reaper travels his yearly rounds 
Through the fields of golden grain. 
And the merry voice of the binder sounds 
Like an answering refrain — 
As the swift machine through the stubble rings. 
And the binder bends o'er his work and sings. 






J- 



\ 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 



31 






« 



Oh, sweet are the joys of the harvest-time ! 

\VTaen each stalk wears a golden crown. 
When, in chorus, the insects chime, 
At eve, when the sun goes down — 
And the cooling shadows, gathering fast. 
Tell us that the day is past. 

Sweet is the morn, when lights the East 

With the radiant lamp of day ; 
When the echoes are 'wakened by bird and beast, 
As they romp in their merry play^ 
And the grass is wet with the heavy dew, 
Like diamonds sparkling to the view. 

Sweet is the rest of the noon-tide hour. 

When the dinner-horn is blown ; 
When the workmen seek some shady bower, 
Where each, in merry tone, 
Tells of exploits in the sunny fields — 
Of former plantings and former yields. 

The housewife worlvs with her rarest skill 

In cooking the tempting meals ; 
The success that is wrought by a woman's will 
The laden board reveals ; 
And the sturdy harvesters gathered there 
Offer up thanks for the bountedus fare. 

Like the reaper who mows the golden grain. 

And gathers the bright new sheaves, 
A greater is traveling o'er life's plain. 
And wide is the "swath" he leaves — 
Eeaping alike the youthful gems, 
And the fidly l)earded and ripened stems. 




32 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 




Relentlessly comes this reaper strong-, 

In sunshine or in rain ; 
He ever hurries his work along, 
And he cometh not in vain ; 
In every moment— in every clime, 
With him it is always harvest time. 

May showers of Heavenly love-light fall 

On this varied field of ours. 
Cooling and cleansing the hearts of all, 
As the rain-drops cool the flowers. 
May the harvest reaped by Death's cold hand 
Be safely stored in the Better Land ! 

RAIN! 



Hark, the patter of the rain ! 

It is pouring down again ; 
Hear it dripping, dripping, dripping from the eaves ; 

How the storm-wind shakes the shutters ! 

While the distant thunder mutters. 
And the lightning through the murky night-air 
cleaves. 

Hear the dashing of the rain. 

As it beats against the pane ! 
Now 'tis whirling, whirhng by in fitful showers ; 

Though, in heavy volumes pouring. 

On the tempest it is roaring, 
It has come to add new beauty to the flowers. 




Like an evil spirit, vain, 
Comes the rushing of the rain. 



J- 



> 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



H3 




Dashiii)?, splashing, on the tiriii and s(>li<l walls : 

And, like evils, unavailinfr 

When the walls ot right assailing. 
It is backward hiirled, and harndessly it tails. 

Just beyond the falling rain 

There are brighter skies again. 
And the morning light will tinge the clouds with 
gold : 

Though at present shadows hover. 

8oon the darkness will be over, 
And the cheering light of day again unfold. 

J^ike the gloomy, chilling rain, 
* Come our days of care and pain, 
And we treml)le, tremljle, with an aw^ful dread ; 

Yet from one who rules al)ove us. 

And will never cease to love us. 
On our gloomy hearts a precious light is shed. 

Though there comes the evil rain 

Falling (^n our social plain. 
Though malignant clouds obscure the noon-day lig'ht, 

Like the blooming of the tlowers 

After tiercely-beating showers, 
Bursts forth the sign of Triumph for the Right .' 



t 




34 



IDLE HHYMiyOS. 






THE CRY FROM THE CLIFF. 

ON THE DEATH OF HON. LEVI DUNGAN, WHO WAS KILLED 
BY FALLING OVER A PKECIPICE IN THE NIGHT. 



As a thief in the night. Death's messenger tiies. 
And, perched on the dark cliff's treacherous edge. 

Silently waits, 'neath the lowering skies. 
Till his victim approaches the perilous ledge. 

Away in the darkness — into the gloom, 
He goes from the bed of a suffering child ; 

He heeds not, he hears not, the tale of his doom, 
As told by the rain-drops pattering wild. 

Down, down the dark precipice, down to the grave. 
Unknown to his dear ones, at night he hath si)ed ; 

No presence to warn him — no power to save. 

And the storm sings a re<iuiem 'rotmdhis death-bed- 

Yet not all unknown does he take the dread fall, 
A shout weirdly tloats on the dull wintry air ; 

A loved one is watching who hears the sad call — 
A farewell to earth — a deep wail of despair. 

She listens again, V)ut the call cometh not, 

No sound l>at the rain-drops beating the ground ; 

While the Death-Angel Hies swift away from the spot. 
And Peace spreads her white wings gently around. 

She turns from the window— the storm rages on. 
And the night-winds still o'er the precipice roll— 

Oh, Thou, the Great Comforter, come with the dawn» 
And speak the sweet message of peace to her soul. 

M:\\ eacli wintry breeze tliat is wafted along. 




1^ 



> 



IDLE RH y MINGS. 



35 




By the treacherous clift where her loved one went 
down. 
Bear on its winj^.s the sweet burden of song : 
"Ye are l)earin<a: my cross — T will jj-ive thee a 
crown I" 

THE GRAVE BY THE BROOKLET. 



« 



Down liy the brook, where the willow tree giows, 

A cottajje in solitude stands ; 
Xear it's age-blackened walls, the eglantine blows, 
And the soft winds of Spring shake the willow>- 
rows 

That nod o'er the brook's shining sands. 

There oft, in the fast-fading days that have tied, 

With the sun's first ligliting the sky, 
I watched from this cottage the first streaks of red 
That over the far Eastern hillocks were shed. 
And heard the clear brook babbling by. 

Ah, soft was the hand which then rested in mine. 

And lovely those dear eyes of blue ; 
How sweet 'round my heart do the memories twine I 
And I see, once again, that young face divine. 

That told of a heart warm and true. 

How oft did we raml)le, with hearts light and free. 
Over meadow and valley and hill ! 

We knew every tlower— by name called each tree, 

And oft did we pause by the willows to see 
The young tish i)lay in the rill. 

When came the dull Autunm— the days growing cold, 




3(1 



IDLE RHYMIJSGS. 





And the fields wore their garments of brown. 
When the trees in the woodland their l)eauty unfold,— 
We watched the rich colors of crimson and gold. 

That hung on the hill like a crown. 

Winter came on, with its dull biting frost, 

AVhen the earth wore a mantle of snow ; 
I saw my young friend by suffering toss'd 
I heard, in a dream, that the young life was lost— 
And I fell with the terrible blow. 

The Spring came again, I covered with flowers 

A little green grave on the hill ; 
You may see it, just there, where its snowy shaft 

towers 
Its white head above the green net-work of bowers, 

Where the roses are blossoming still. 

I go to that grave when the first breath of Spring 

Is borne on the mild Soiithern breeze ; 
I train the young roses— fresh flowers I bring, 
And list to the birds that so merrily sing 

In the boughs of the old willow trees. 

While watching these flowers, with tenderest care. 

As the years go rapidly by, 
I think of that floM^er, so lovely and rare, 
Which our Heavenly Father no longer could spare. 

Now sweetly transplanted on high. 
To those who will trust Him, He giveth relief, 

To hearts that are burdened with pain ; 
If we carry, in prayer, our burden of grief 
To Him, He M^ill surely reward our l)elief, 

And make o>ir hearts happy again. 




> 



V 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 37 




t 



SUNLIGHT. 

F'roin the Icatless cherry trees, 
>s^()(l(linfj: in the summer breeze. 

Hear the music ringing'! 
Sweetly from the topmost bough. 
Hear the Heavenly music now. 

Birds of Spring are singing. 

Robin's wai'bling wild and free. 
Blue-bird flies from tree to tree — 

Hear the happy chorus! 
Crows are calling from the hill, 
Songs of frogs sound loud and shrill, 

Sjjring is hovering o'er us. 

Yet, beyond these days so warm, 
lieady Avaits the chilling storm, 

In tempest and in showers; 
And frosts of Winter yet may fall, 
While freezing winds burst over all, 

And kill the budding flowers. 

Thus in youth the sunshine plays 
All about our childish ways. 

While hearts with joy are beating: 
But let us while the days are bright 
Prepare to stand the stormy night — 

It's shade on shade repeating. 

Then, while gloomy grow our skies, 
And fading age has dimmed our eyes, 
^Vhile we are drawing nearer 
To that glad, lilissful home al)ove. 




38 



IDLE EHYMIKGS. 



iK^an^«anK^apK^npKjia!aK^apKsnc9K^n!a 




He will surround us M'ith His love 

And make our pathway clearer. 

And while the bells of Heaven ring. 
And angel voices sweetly sing 

Glad songs "beyond the River," 
Oh, sweetest hope that e'er was known. 
We will enjoy, about the throne. 

Sunlight and joy forever. , 

THE WIDOW'S SONG. 

Why should I sigh when others smile — 
Why grieve, while others i)lay '? 

Why try, with saddened heart, to while 
The weary hours away ? 

Ah, cruel memory brings again 

Those scenes of long ago! 
This poor heart had not fallen, then. 

Beneath Sin's cruel blow. 

I see again a manly form. 

With ciu'ls of darkest brown, 
1 see, ere yet the dreadful storm 

Has bent my poor heart down. 

I see the Tempter smiling come — 

Oh dread, oh cruel, fate I 
He enters now our happy home — 

He turns all love to hate. 

Once started on the downward road. 
How swift my darling Hies, 




.©> 



> 



V 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 



39 






i 



Till, liroken by his sinful load. 
He beiKls, he falls, he diesl 

Xow, from his narrow house of sod, 

I softly clear the weeds, 
While, at the Judgment Ear of (lod. 

His soul for mercy pleads. 

Js there no hope for such as heV 
]Must that dear soul be lost ? 

Is there no solace left for me — 
On life's cold tempest toss'dV 

Ah, well may souls in horror shrink 
And hearts indig-nant burn — 

And from the dreadful Demon, Drink, 
In trepidation turn I 

Ah, he who sold the poison, dread, 
By which my darling fell — 

A widow's curse be on his head. 
To drag' him down to Hell! 

Behold the light beyond the gloom — 
The day lieyond the night— 

I see this Demon's coming doom — 
The triumph of the Right I 

THE MOTHER WATCHES. 

She stands by the door and watches, 
As the evening sun goes down, 

For her loved one soon is coming 
Away from the distant town ; 




40 



IDLE BHYMIKGS. 




She waits, while nifj^ht advances. 
Arrayed in its starry crown. 

She watches with tireless vision 
As the hours are growing late; 

She watches the fire-flies gleaming:, 
Down by the farm-yard gate — 

And wonders if they are warnings 
Sent on by a crnel Fate. 

Footsteps at last are nearing. 

Along the shadowy road; 
From her yearning heart is lifted 

The weight of a heavy load; 
All now is joy and brightness 

Where the stream of doubtings flowed. 

Footsteps— not two, but many, 

Are nearing her very door; 
Strong men are bearing a burden, 

A^Tiile a neighbor comes before — 
To tell her the crushing story 

That her loved one is no more. 

'T is a short and a simple story 
Told at this homestead bright: 

A '-friend," a drink and a (puirrel, 
A murderous, drunken fight — 

A young heart pierced by a bullet, 
A home in the gloom of night. 

A mother is broken-hearted, 

A promising son is dead; 
The gallows claims a victim. 



J- 



\ 



IDLE BIIYMIXGS. 



4/ 




t 



And a hellish light is shed, 
'Round the den of the doj?gery-keeper 
A\'ith murder upon his head. 

How long;— while hearts are breaking", 

As the sad years onward roll — 
Oh, God of mercy and justice, 

Shall the Demon have control ? 
How long shall this mighty sorrow 

O'ershadow the weary soul 'f 

Oh, hasten the time when Reason 

Shall rule with a perfect sway! 
When the snares prepared for our loved ones 

Shall all be torn away — 
When no more for a child in danger 

A mother shall weep and pray. 

BY THE DEATH BED. 

In the lone watches of the night 

I sit, and doze, and yawn. 
Or watch the lamp's l)right-glaring light, 

And long for the coming dawn — 
Till my weary eyes give up the fight. 

As the night wears slowly on. 

My eye-lids fall— and I sit and dream, 

As the hours go whirling by; 
I seem to stand by a mighty sf ream. 

Whose waters never die- 
Along whose shores the sun's rays gleam, 

And the breakers sadly sigh. 




42 



IDLE BHVMINGS. 



msimu^himamfiimn^fimnafimnahimnTifimanhiisaafimaafimnwamn 




I see the life (if a loved one r-ast 

On the face of its waters deep; 
I behold, as it rushes swiftly past, 

While I stand on the shore and weep; 
That life is borne on the waters vast 

Toward a harboi' of jteaeeful sleep. 

Again, and ajJ:ain, they rush along 

On the ever-moving tide. 
Infancy, frail, and manhood, strong. 

Are floating side Ijy side — 
.Vnd I hear a shout of sweetest song 

Borne back o'er the waters wide. 

I see, far down the watery waste. 

Those souls in a joyous band. 
Each brow by a golden circlet gracetl. 

And a harp in each peaceful hand; 
For those who passed, in the streaui's wild haste 

Have reached "the better land" 

I awake! The sufferer lying there 

So weary, and weak, and worn, 
Sleei)s sweetly now — from the brow so fair 

All signs of pain are toi'n. 
And the wearied eyes have a vacant stare. 

For the soul is upwai'd liorne. 

At night, while tlu^ drowsy watcher dreamed. 

And the sufferer peaceful lay— 
O'er that couch an angel iiresence beamed. 

And the soul was borne away, 
To sing the song of souls redeemed, 

And live in an endless dav. 



J- 



> 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



43 



; j^w. jp'^a'. »*'Mw. }f"9w j>"'«ir< gp;^!-. jr-ar.' jf-'fr; jpy-iarv jjs-zii-.ir w 



Oh, curious watcher on life's l)roa(l sea, 

Thou knowest not the hour 
When the Son of Man nuiy come to thee. 

With the weig-ht of his mighty power — 
lie beareth away the aged tree. 

And the tiny, tender flower. 

Though He comes at morn— or at midniglit, 
drear. 

When the gloomy shadows fall. 
Be pure in heart— ye have nought to fear 

When comes the solemn call. 
( )ne who loves you is always near, 

Who keeps and couiforts all. 

THE 0M> FARM HOUSE FOR ME. 

Let Luxury its palace seek. 

And Pride its fine display — 
These are hut fancies of the weak. 

And quickly pass away; 
Xo stately mansion is so fair 

As the woodland, wild and free — 
With its shady groves and liracing air, 
The old farm house give me. 

Let Fashion smile her sweetest smile. 

And lure dull Folly on; 
Let weak Pretension rule the while, 

And earthly cares ))e gone; 
Yet in the city's pent-u]) throng 

No pleasure do T s^e — 



e 



44 IDLE BHYMINGS. 




With tlower, and rtekl, and bird, and song. 
The old farm house give me. 

The worldly pleasures of mankind 

But shadows are, at best, 
Enjoyed a few short years, to find 

A need of peaceful rest; 
Let others go where'er they will, 

The world is broad and free — 
I make my choice — for good or ill 

The old farm house for me. 

AVhen, down the sun-set slope of life, 

I wander, old and frail, 
When, tired out with worldly strife, 

These limbs begin to fail — • ^ 

Oh, may I be prepared to meet 

Bravely, the great decree! 
Then, a grave within some wild retreat, 

Near the old farm house, give me- 

THE WINTER KING. 

J^ittle friend, with flitting wing. 
What glad tidings dost thou l»rmg? 

On the fiercest wind that blows. 
Heralding the winter snows, 
Free and happy dost thou come 
With joyous tidings to my home? 

Tell me, pretty snow-l)ird! 

Cans't thou tell of Christmas chimes, 
Heard Ijy thee in colder climes? 





J- 



i 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



45 




Hast thou in the gloomy past, 
Carol'd free in fiercer bhist, 
Or, hast thou Sunnner's beauties seen. 
Flowerets bright and pastures green? 
Tell me, joyous snow-bird. 

When Autumn winds blow chill and bleak. 

These fading pastures then I seek. 

And try, with trusting heart, to bring 
Eays of sunshine while I sing; 

The gloomiest days I try to make 

Brighter for my Master's sake " — 

Spake my little snow-l)ird. 

When wintry skies, with gloomy frown, 
Hang above the meadows brown, 

Little songster, tell to me. 

How to be as gay as thee ; 
How to look, whate'er l)etide, 
Always on the brightest side — 

Tell me hnppy snow-bird. 

He who notes the sparrow's fall. 

Has a tender care for all; 

And from His bounteous store above. 
Fills my heart with tender love; 

That's my secret, full and free 

Guard it well, and happy lie! " 

Spake the hapj)y snow-bird. 



* 




46 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 





BLAGKBERRYING. 

Merrily tripping, with basket or pail, 

Forth in the morning light. 
Over the hill and through the vale — 

Truly a happy sight. 

Happy young voices ring on the air, 

Voices of laughter and song; 
Glad young faces are beaming fair — 

Happy feet dance along. 

Hearts as light as the bird that flies 

Gaily from tree to tree; 
Pure and bright as the svimmer skies, 

The children seem to me. 

All day long, in v^^ood or field, 

They gather the luscious store. 
Bringing, at eve, the bounteous yield. 

But bringing with fingers sore. 

Soft hands, pure and tender at morn. 
And eager their work to begin. 

Cruelly scarred by many a thorn 
That lies imbedded within. 

Y et pause they not for the thorn's deep scar- 
By many a field and glen. 

To-morrow morn they will wander afar. 
Picking the berries again. 

Brave yoimg hearts! Nor scar nor pain. 
May dampen their youthful zeal ; 

Their happy songs, on the thorny plain, 
Attest the joy they feel. 



J- 



i 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 4/ 






* 



Oh, happj^ youth ! Avith it's careless play, 

It's memory lingers long ; 
How oft we wish we could keep alway 

Repeating it's happy song ! 

May the children who gather the berries sweet, 

Regardless of brier or thorn. 
Happily dance, o'er a golden street. 

In the light of the Judgment morn ! 

THAT LITTLE GRAVE I' PON THE HILL. 

Warm and bright the sun is glowing, 

Soft the balmy air; 
On the trees the bright Inids l)lowing 
Show their petals fair — 

A flower, sweeter, fairer still. 
Lies in the grave on yonder hill. 

Oh, gentle Spring, the earth caressing, 

Pleasant sight to me! 
Pictures of thy love impressing 
On each bush and tree — 

There rises in my vision still. 
That little grave upon the hill. 

Comes alternate joy and sorrow. 

In this life of ours. 
Thorns to-day may bloom to-morrow. 
With the richest flowers — 

Yet my poor heart is downcast still. 
AVhile thinking of yon lonely hill. 

Bound am I bv that sad token 




^MORsanK^acBKaiaiaKjipph-MSBKspnKjin^KjianK^ 



48 



IDLE BHY3IINGS. 



Of the Savior's love, 
Bound by chains to live unbroken 
In the world above — 

But yet my heart sad niein'ries fill 
At sigrht of yonder lonely hill. 

Tears of grief drive out the g-ladness 

From this heart of mine; 
I must ever l)ow in sadness, 
I must still repine — 

I can Init see, look where I will. 
That little g^rave upon the hill. 

That lost one yet I may recover 

On the other shore, 
WTien I pass Death's dark stream over, 
And shall j^rieve no more — 

No sorrow there, no thought of ill 
No lonely grave upon the hill. 

THE DAY OF LIFE. 




I looked to the East when the shadows were lifting, 
I witnessed the gloom of night turning to gray: 

1 saw, o'er the hill-toi)8, the bright sunbeams sifting- 
And heard the glad robins proclaiming the day. 

Oh, beautiful vision! I saw a child playing, 
I saw him romp happily t»ver the lawn; 

Now chasing the butterflies — now idly straying. 
Amchig the sweet flowers that welcomed the dawn- 

I saw him at noon-tide, the warm sun was shining. 




.^r^i^x^ 



> 



V 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 



49 






Careless, he welcomed the heat of the day; 
Bright were his hopes, and on them reclining, 
He saw the great future spread sweetly away. 

I saw him at even-tide, care-worn and weary, 
Oppressed with a load he no longer could bear; 

The future before him seemed barren and dreary. 
When sweetly a voice fell on the night air: 

"Oh, man, in thy sin, take heed to this warning- 
Approach unto Him who can save thee from loss; 

If again ye would live in the glory of morning. 
Your burden lay low at the foot of the cross." 

I saw him at night, when his eye-lids were falling, 
I watched, as departed the last, fleeting breath ; 

His voice at the last on his Savior was calling. 
And sweet was his peace in the slumber of death. 

Life is a day — all sunshine at starting, 

How eager the youthful heart longs for its noon! 
Yet, once in the shade, the bright rays departing. 

Ah, then do we tremble lest Death come too soon. 

Our lives may be made all sunshine and beauty, 
He who creates us has pointed the way — 

It is but to follow the path of our duty. 
The path that leads up to a Glorious Day. 



t 




50 IDLE BHYMINGS. 



abcnnKsni 




THE "COTTAGE ROSE." 

A RURAL SKETCH. 




I met her at eve, when lengthening shadows 
Were settling down upon valley and hill; 

Together we wandered over the meadows, 
And heard the drear note of the wild whip-poor- 
will. 

With sweet clover-blossoms her dark hair adorning, 
A picture more beautiful never was seen; 

Her eyes were as bright as the simlight of morning 
And she moved o'er the earth with the air of a 
queen. 

Ah, proud was I then of that beautiful creature. 
How proud, my poor heart may never disclose; 

As I gazed on her beauty of form and of feature, 
I playfully named her my sweet "cottage rose." 

Ah, sad, crueLfate, that is always deceiving, 
The higher it leads us, the harder we fall; 

I left my companion, fully believing 
That I shortly would own her, my wife and my all. 

Long months passed away — long months of repining 
Ere again I could rush to the home of my love; 

Again was the sun of the Spring brightly shining. 
And I heard the soft notes of the sad turtle-dove. 

At the door of the cottage I saw my sweet charmer. 
Impulsive, I gathered her into my arms — 

Hut HERiiusBAND extended a greeting much warmer^ 
And the cottage rose up and tilled me with alarms. 



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IDLE BHYMINGS. 51 



The house was the same, by meadows surrounded, 
But the "old folks" had passed to the bright g-olden 
shore ; 
The cottage inside with fierce echoes resounded — 
And a twenty-pound youngster romped over the 
floor. 

Thus ended my dreams— my visions romantic, 
Of "love in a cottage" and "sylvan retreats"; 

I left, in condition of mind almost frantic — 
I'm "blest" if history this case repeats. 

When next I engage in such a flirtation. 
And try to "cut shines" with a gay country girl, 

It will be when Reason has left her location. 
Leaving my head in a chaotic whirl. 

For, though I should live to be old as the movmtains, 
The lamps of the future will never disclose 

That Reason has so nearly dried up her fountains, 
That I will again claim a sweet "cottage rose". 

FALLING LEAVES. 



t 



ox THE DEATH OF CHARLES FOSTER, KILLED IN A 
RAILROAD AOCIDENT. 

Dear Marth, I've spent this happy day among the 

forest trees, 
That shower down their beauteous leaves upon the 

Autunm breeze 
In shades of gold and crimson— in emerald and white. 




ry2 

■iiaE! 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



K«a(aK«aah'«i!ioK«naK«apfi;«aaK;copKsniaK;sapKca 







And all the colors in the list, they show them pure 

and bright. 
I hear the music of the ])irds, in voices sweet and 

clear, 
That sing a touching recjuiem upon the fading year; 
And, through the thickly-falling leaves, I see a train 

rush by, 
I hear, along the iron path, the engine's merry cry; 
With soimd of shrieking whistle, and clang of merry 

bell. 
I hear the tireless engine its heartless story tell: 
"I go, as goes the train of Time, whose engineer is 

Fate, 
Throughout the morning's early hours — throughout 

the evening late, 
I take no note of human life, I care not who may fall 
Upon my path — I crush them out, alike the great and 

small — 
For, though beneath a human hand I work by night 

or day. 
All mortal train-dispatchers I oft-times disobey; 
And, like the soaring eagle sweeps, and stills the 

young lamb's breath, 
I oft-times fly my iron track, and crush my friends to 

death." 

He ***** * 

The train is gone — far through the mist I hear its 

rumbling wheels. 
While, on the narrow iron bands the engine rocks and 

reels 

But hark ! 'Tis coming back again, I hear the engine 

bell. 



J- 




IDLE RHYMINGS. 53 




t 



lint this time 'tis the solemn sound that tolls a 

funeral knell. 
Another leaf has fallen low beneath the Mortal tree- 
Has reached the gates that stand ajar, dear Marth, 

for you and me; 

Another leaf has blown along toward the golden 
shore, 

Another leaf lost to our sight till Time shall be no 
more. 
******* 

Xow still the merry train runs l)y— now still the dead 
leaves fall, 

But Charley Foster hears no more the train-dis- 
patcher's call; 

His liailroad days are over— and, with the whistle's 

Is mingled, in the saddest strain, the lonely widow's 
sigh. 

And now the engine's wheezing breath, and now the 
clanging l)ell. 

Seem ever to be telling the tale of how he fell; 

Now, on the greal Immortal road o'er which our 
friend has gone. 

He signals, with a brighter light, his weeping com- 
rades on. 

How liright the hope we have in Death— of better 
days to come, 

When, all our earthly labors done, we "board the 

train" for Home ! 
And, safely gathered over there, and bound in golden 

sheaves. 

We find those missing ones of earth— we find our 
fallen leaves. 



"S^^ 




THE OLD CHURCH BELL. 




Swings majestic to and fro, 
While the echoes come and go — 
Gladsome story does it tell — 
Day by day, the old church bell : 
"Ding— dong— ding," 
Sweet the echoes ring ; 
Let the solemn music swell, 
Loudly ring the old church bell. 

Gaily swells its cheery voice, 
While, beneath it, hearts rejoice ; 
Now its clanging, far and wide, 
Call the bridegroom and the bride : 
"Dong — ding — dong," 
Hear its happy song ; 
In those fond hearts what raptures dwell. 
While rings the happy old church bell ! 

Now its tolling, soft and slow. 
Calls to hearts l)Owed down with woe ; 
Up the aisles, with measured tread, 
Move the bearers with the dead : 
"Toll— toll— toll," 
Sadly the echoes roll — 
A sadder tale no tongue can tell. 
Than rings the mournful old church bell. 

Than earthly cares that 'round me play. 
Than earthly joys that soon decay, 
This old bell, whene'er it rings, 



> 



V 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 



OO 




Speaks to me of better things : 
"Dong — ding — dong," 
I hear its mellow song — 
Falls on my ear like some weird spell. 
The ringing of the old church, bell. 

Oh, may its ringings ever be 
Harbingers of joy to me ; 
May its music ever fall 
Sweetly on the hearts of all ! 
"Ding — dong— ding," 
Let the glad echoes ring — 
Till every human heart shall swell 
With joy to hear the old church bell. 



« 



THE OLD DESERTED SHAFT. 

Grim and gray, in the shades of night, 
I see it standing, a lonely sight, 
Xow undisturbed by the miners' call, 
The hoisting-house, with its chimney tall. 

Of the old deserted shaft. 

Rusted the boilers, brown and old. 
Crumbling down is the furnace cold ; 
Pulley and cog-wheel creak no more, 
For the days of busy toil are o'er 

For the old deserted shaft. 

The cables that drew the "diamonds" dark. 
From the regions lit by the mine-lamp's spark. 
Are M'orn and broken, or thrown away, 




56 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 





And tell the tale of the sad decay, 

'Round the old deserted shaft. 

1^0 more the song of the merry crowd, 
Or the boisterous laughter, ringing loud. 
Breaks on the breath of the breezes cold, 
That ever raise from the gloomy hold 

Of the old deserted shaft. 

Where are the miners who gaily sang — 
Where are the picks that loudly rang ? 
We peer in the gloom, and we loudly call. 
But they anwer not — it is silent all, 

this old deserted shaft. 

Gone are the miners who labored then— 
Those sturdy boys are now strong men ; 
They labor now in the world's great mine. 
And we see no more the didl lights shine. 

' In the old deserted shaft. 

Sad is the story the old shaft tells— 
Touching the lesson that 'round it dwells : 
"I freely gave of my humble store — 
They took my all, and they came no more," 

Says the old deserted shaft. 

"While up from my depths my store I raised. 
Friends drew near me, flattered and praised — 
Gazed with pride down my yawning brink— 
But now, alas, they rarely think 

Of the old deserted shaft," 

Oh, that my poor life, thou gloomy mine, 




J- 



> 



Be far removed from the course of thine ! 
Let not the friends who applaud to-day, 
In gloomy hours put me away 

Like the old deserted shaft. 

AVhen Time's great book has been unsealed, 
And the work of the ages stands revealed. 
Bright in the honored names enroll'd, 
We may see, in letters of purest gold — 

"The old deserted shaft !" 

Giving up all of its precious store 
That man might live— it could do no more ; 
Peaceful, contented, it stands at last. 
And we count 'mong the things of the fading Past 
The old deserted shaft. 

— ..o.-4^=<>.. — 
THE MARKED BEECH. 



t 



Beneath the beech-tree's branches, this pleasant sum- 
mer day, 

I sit and watch the wild birds that merrily hop and 
play ; 

I hear the water murmuring, wh ere runs the little 
rill, 

And the pheasant's rapid "drumming" upon the 
neighboring hill ; 

I hear the soft winds sighing among the stately pines, 

I hear ^olian music as it swells in measured lines ; 

It seems the voice of angels, as it sweetly falls^ 
around — 




5S 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



iKsan^an^an^nnKfliinKjeanBsnnKjinnRJia 



Now floating from above the pines — now sweeping 
o'er the ground. 

It seems as though some wondrous gift — some sud- 
den power of speech, 

Has centered in the branches of the tar out-spreading 
beech ; 

A power of speech has centered here— it tells in let- 
ters bold 

Of little ones that 'round our hearts entwined their 
threads of gold. 

Their names within the living bark, with sharpened 
"jack-knife" made — 

Though absent from our circle now the hand that 
drew the blade — 

Recall the merry romping of their tireless little feet. 

And we seem to hear their voices, in childish accents 
sweet ; 

The old beech stands a witness of scenes of long ago — 

Upon its knarled and well-carved sides some names 
but dimly show ; 

Only a few fast-fleeting years, and we have passed 
away, 

Then other eyes will read the names, as we have read 
to-day ; 

And other minds — while from the birds the beech 
with warbling rings. 

Will list to Heaven's music, and think of holy things. 




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\ 



IDLE RHYMINGS,^ 



59 






t 



MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 

Far down in the gathering shades of the West, 

The hot sun of summer has gone ; 
The earth in the dull robes of twilight is dress'd, 
And, dreading no longer the heat that oppress'd. 
The fowls of the barn-yard are seeking their rest, 

And the night wears lazily on. 

How^ lovely and peaceful is nature to-night ! 

How sweet is its balmy repose ! 
On the Western hills glimmer the last rays of light, 
As the great Orb of Day moves aw'ay in his might. 
And we joyfully welcome the Queen of the N'ight, 

And the sultry day draws to a close. 

The faint moonbeams kiss a sweet face on the wall, 

A face I can never forget ; 
Ah, sweet were the days that those features recall. 
The memory still holds my l^art as a thrall , 
Those scenes of my childhood — how plainly they all 

Are stamped on my memory yet ! 

Those eyes that oft watched me with tenderest care, 

As I romped in my infantile play. 
The same eyes still look from the gloomy frame there> 
The same gentle features, the same glossy hair — 
The saintly lips pleading to carry a share 

Of my joys and my sorrows to-day. 

Thou joy of my childhood — thou noblest of friends. 

If to angels the power is given. 
While thy child 'neath the cares of this sinful world 
bends, 




60 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 




While my weak song: of praise and devotion ascends, 
While the word of the Master a brighter hope lends, 
Draw near, and teach me of Heaven. 

Tell me of the joys of friends who have gone — 

Teach me, as cannot another; 
Be thou the light that shall beckon me on, 
Till the harbor of peace and of rest I have won. 
And there, in that land more bright than the smi, 

I still bless the name of my mother. 

DEACON SLASHER ON SHOWS! 




Now, Martha, 't aint fur me to say that every show 

is wrong, 
We find some good commingled with the had that 

comes along; 
Kow / like to see the^ircus move along the crowded 

street — 
The elephant, with swinging trunk, the bands with 

music sweet. 

I ever linger near the tent, with innocent desire. 

To see the woman, scanty clad, walk up the sloping 

wire; 
I love to hear the smart man, about the side-show 

door, 
Tell of strange and cur'us things from many a furrin 

shore. 

I like to hear the showman tell — although to me it's 
queer — 




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i 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 61 



RxanK^nnKcn 



t 



How, if I pay ten dollars down, I'll make a hundred 

clear; 
All these I see, an' listen to, an' feel it is no sin, 
Because I hev no evil thoughts, an' put no money in. 

AVicked ? Course it's wicked, if I go in an' pay, 
An' give those lazy wicked men my cash to take 

away ; 
But even after we had stayed, an' all the circus 

viewed. 
How easy to repent agin, an' hev our faith renewed! 

An' when I've thought the matter o'er, I've wondered 

now an' then, 
AVhy all the travelin' shows that come are run by 

sinful men ; 
Now my way is fur godly men to furnish all the 

plays— 
The man who runs a moral show should be a man 

who prays. 

An' I hev offen thought if we should organize a 

show. 
The influence would be excellent, a better taste would 

groM^; 
There's Sister Toss could ride a horse, in "tights" 

an' shortened gown — 
With Brother Crump for Ringmaster, an' Brother 

Spraggs fur Clown. 

Then we must hev some animals, or else the show 

would fail — 
.lust put a closely-fittin' coat, with long an' slender' 

tail, 




62 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 




Upon the form of Brother Pink, an', Martha, you 

would see 
As fine an ape as ever played upon a cocoa tree. 

There's Deacon Bluff, the basso, who, when the tent 

was fall, 
Down on all fours, a bellerin', could play the l)utt"ler 

bull; 
Then little boys from Sabbath School — sure it would 

be no sin — 
Could peddle roasted pea-nuts 'round an' bring the 

money in. 

"Ah, Deacon," said his solemn dame, "I see you are 

inclined 
To let the Tempter capture you, but you will surely 

find 
That if the Christinns' Paradise is ever to be won. 
Appearances of evil things you must forever shun." 

But, Martha, think what we might do, in money- 

makin' way. 
As harmless, and as innocent, as little lambs at play! 
While looking at the show our time in harmless joy 

is spent- 
One look beneath the surface reveals the good intent. 

An' the good or bad opinion our people hev of shows 
Ott'en depends on kno\\'in' just where the money goes; 
An', Martha,, though I hev no cash in sinfulness to 

spend — 
When the next show comes along, I may, I may at. 

tend! 





IDLE RHYMINGS. 63 



jn^'iipiKianRiaaK^aaKiaRKia^K^ 




HALF-MAST THE FLAG! 



ox THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT GAKFIELD. 



Lower the flag! The muffled drum's low beat 
Tells the sad tale so often told before; 

Its gloomiest page does History repeat — 
A Nation mourns her fallen chief once more. 

Lower the flag! While softly 'round his bier 
We gather, all, with swiftly beating hearts, 

While quick from every eye the blinding tear. 
At memory of his many virtues, startis. 

Lower the flag! A Nation's greatest son 
We see Ijy foul assassin's hand laid low ; 

He sleeps beneath bright laurels, nobly won — 
A Nation gave him all she could bestow. 

Lower the flag! From sunny Southern fields 
Indignant voices float upon the breeze, 

While the great North in deepest sorrow yields, 
To this most dread of all Fate's dread decrees. 

Lower the flag! While from the Western pines. 
There comes a dirge that reaches to the skies: 

The Western dirge with Eastern wail combines- 
In agony a mighty Nation cries. 

Though seemingly his stay has been but brief — 
His greatest service had but just begun, 

We bow our heads, and, choking down our grief. 
Exclaim, with reverence, "Thy Will be Done!" 



t 




64 



IDLE HHYMINGS. 




THE LAND OF LIGHT. 



There's a Land of Light, 
Where the angels bright, 

Their songs of glory sing; 
There's a land of Love, 
In the world above, 

Where Holy Anthems ring. 

Chorus — 

How sweet to dwell in that Land of Light- 
That home beyond the skies! 

To live a life that is ever bright. 
In a day that never dies. 

There's a Land of Day, 
Far, far way. 

There's a land of perfect bliss; 
There's a land where sin 
Ne'er enters in — 

There's a better world than this. 



Chorus — 



There's a Land of Rest, 
Where spirits blest 

Enjoy a sweet repose; 
Where seraphs dream. 
And where the stream 

Of jop forever tlows. 



Chorus- 




Oh, that my soul 
May reach that goal. 



J. 



> 



e 



My prayer shall ever be — 
And there at last, 
All sorrows past. 

Find refuge with the free. 

Chortts — 

There to rejoice. 
With new-found voice. 

While sweetest music swells ; 
And soft and clear 
Falls on the air 

The sound of Heaven's bells. 

CHILDREN'S SONW. 

Oh, come, ye dear children, and ramble with me. 
O'er meadow and woodland — how happy and free ! 
The young lambs are playing, the birds sweetly sing' 
The trees in the woodland with melody ring. 

Chorus— 

May our hearts forever sing 

Happy songs of Faith and love. 
Songs of Faith shall ever bring 

Sweet responses from above. 

The cattle are browsing in brightly-green fields, 
To the march of the plowman the mellow earth yields; 
The robin is building her nest in the hedge — 
The frog gaily croaks at the rivulet's edge. 

Chorus — 

We will learn, as we wander a lesson of love. 




66 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 






From the work of the Infinite Teacher above, 
Whe teaches the frog, and the bird, the glad song, 
Which they croak, and they sing, the sjumnier day 
long. 

Chorus — 

The Father, who gives us the trees and the flowers, 
Keeps watchful care over these young lives of ours; 
Not one of us ever shall wander astray, 
If we follow where Jesus has pointed the way. 

Chorus— 

Praise, praise His dear name! Let hozannas resound 
Till our song of devotion shall echo around; 
Till each youthful heart shall repeat the glad word 
" Praise Jesus of Nazareth! Praize ye the Lord! " 



Chorus — 



SILVER BELLS. 



ON THE SILVER WEDDING OF ELDER Z. W. FAOAN AND WIFE. 

Our hearts are filled with joy to-day, 

The world is full of light; 
And 'round yon happy household play 

A host of memories bright. 
What joy to spend a passing hour 

Where Heaven's music swells, 
And hear in all their tender pow'r, 

The chime of silver bells. 

Along life's stream we swiftly glide. 




J- 



\ 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 67 




« 



By many a rippling wave, 
And, on life's stormy, troublous tide, 

Unnumbered dangers brave; 
Yet, as we float toward that land 

Where peace eternal dwells. 
There falls, as from an angel band. 

The chime of silver bells. 

We pause, we linger by that home, 

Where reigns God's saving grace, 
And pray that sorroM s ne'er may come 

To mar that happy place. 
Our sweet communion with those friends 

No earthly joy excels, 
While sweetly, softly, there descends 

The chime of silver bells. 

The beauteous light of Friendship falls 

Upon the social throng. 
And through its rays Love sweetly calls, 

In notes of happy song; 
Yet far above this music rare 

There comes, in fitful spells, 
Floating upon the Autumn air, 

The chime of silver bells. 

God's silver tokens soon, ah, soon. 
Will on their heads unfold; 

For them life's sun has passed its noon— 
Our friends are growing old. 

Yet, in the light of Faith we sing, 
Our Faith all Fear dispels— 

For them will never cease to ring 




as 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 







This chime of silver bells. 

When time with them shall be no more — 

Eternity at hand, 
And, on that other, better shore, 

They join the angel band — 
Their influence will linger still, 

And still, in echoing swells. 
Be heard, by many a vale and hill, 

This chime of silver bells. 

BEECHER GOES WRONG! 

Dear Martha, I've been readin' in the papers. 

Lately, from time to time. 
That Beecher has been cuttin' up wild capers 

'Bout Gospel Truth sublime. 

They say he has gone back on all his preachin'. 

As well as all his flocks; 
And in his later days he has quit teachin' 

Things purely orthodox. 

And now he's jined Bob Ingersoll's dark legions. 

So the papers tell; 
And believes no more in the Infernal Kegions — 

No, Martha, nary Hell. 

He believes there is no future bliss or sorrow, 
Nor glittering harps of gold — 

That he who seeks from future worlds to borrow, 
Is always sadly told. 

It may be, Marth, there's many a foolish teacher, 




IDLE BHYMINGS. 69 




t 



That daily roams about, 
But yet they do not wait, like Mr. Beecher, 
So long to find it out. 

As for me. I'll believe the good old story 

Of "Jesus and His Love," 
And hope to live in everlasting glory 

In happy worlds above. 

I care not for the the Ingersolls and Beechers, 
Whose noi,ions clash with mine; 

I listen not to sich erratic preachers 
About all things divine. 

No earthly talk our Christian faith can sever. 
We'll sing the good old song; 

For, don't we know that Beecher has been ever 
A Tilton towards the wrong ? 

Triumphant over every form of evil, 

We'll shout the Christian's shout; 

Leaving Ingersoll, and Beecher, and the Devil 
To fight their battle out. 

ONLY A BROKEN HEART I 

Jim approached, with beating heart, 
And peered into the room, 

And wished the old man soon would start- 
That he might hear his doom. 

But, while the bracing evening air 

His drooping spirits strengthened. 




10 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 




Upon the tell-tale curtain there 

The shadow only lengthened. 

The wind grew cold — the hour grew late 
And still Jim's heart was thumping; 

He longed to give that "old bald pate" 
A most ferocious bumping. 

At last poor Jim still closer crept, 

And peeped Ijeneath the curtain ; 

He thought the old man surely slept— 
And so he did, "for certain." 

And oh ! he sees Malinda's charms, 

So exquisitely moulded^ 
But in another fellow's arms 

She is most tightly folded. 

Jim left, with gloom upon his brow, 
His tones were soft and mellow; 

He blessed the old man's frosty pow — 
But cursed the other fellow. 



AUTUMN DAYS. 



The Autumn leaves, in red and golden showers. 

Are falling fast. 
Upon the winds the dead and withered flowers 

Are wildly cast. 

In wood and field the watchful hunter hovers, 
With doubtful aim — 





IDLE BHYMINGS. 71 




t 



With ready gun, and nervous hand, he covers 
The boundiuj^ game. 

The bhie-jay sends his harsh and boisterous greeting 

From woodhind dell; 
The school-boy hears, with heavy heart, the beating 

Of school-house bell. 

The chilly days of dreamy, sad November 
Have come again ; 

Their fading beauties long will I remember- 
But not with pain. 

Along the course of time I'm swiftly flying, 

With heedless speed; 
About my way I hear the Fall winds sighing, 

By bush and reed. 

Bright precursors of the winter coming, 

The snow-birds play. 
And shadowy are the bare trees in the gloaming. 

This Autumn day. 

So, past the summer of life's way, I travel. 

The shadows fall; 
'Tis well the future I cannot unravel, 

Xor read it all — 

But trust that He who, from the earth ascended. 

In clouds of light. 
Will see my toilsome journey safely ended — 

With promise bright. 

Above the winter snow, or Springtime glory, 
The angels sing; 




12 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 




And from on high send forth the ghidsoine story 
"Eternal Spring!" 



•o.^^.o.. — 




A FIRESIDE REVERIE. 

Fierce is the wind, from the cold Xorth-land blowing. 

Swiftly the snow whirls over the lea; 
Brightly the coals on the warm hearth are glowing, 

Bright as the thoughts that this night brings to me. 

I gaze fondly after the years that are Hying, 
I see the coals light up a different scene; 

Within a dark vale I see a camp lying. 
While vigilant sentinels march on the green. 

I see sturdy comrades repose in sweet slumbers, 
I see their tents gleam in the fast-fading light; 

While the strong breezes, in ^-Eolian numbers, 
Sing a drear lullaby through the cold night. 

While I thus look, still swells the delusion, 
I hear the harsh bugle-note break on the air; 

Aroused from their slumber, the wildest confusion 
Keigns in the midst of the soldiery there. 

I see the bright fire-light on bayonets dancing. 
Long ere the "reveille" heralds the dawn; 

While the thunderous tread of noble steeds prancing, 
Tells me that Thomas moves gallantly on. 

Oh, gallant commander — cool, patient and daring! 

On red Chickamauga who "stood like a rock"! 
Who hurled back the foemen, broken, despairing, 




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i 



IDLE EHYMINGS. 73 




Each time they advanced to the death-dealing: 
shock! 

No more shall the world see your strategic fighting — 
Yur skillful direction of saber and gun, 

Nor see, 'midst the battle, your watchful eyes lighting 
At the first indication of victory won. 

Though low lies your body, your fame shall not per- 
ish — 

Your gentle demeanor, your daring sublime, 
A grateful Repuljlic will constantly cherish 

And write them in gold on the Tablets of Time. 

My dream in the fire-light is suddenly shaded, 
And, flickering low, but a faint light is shed — 

The coals have died out, the picture has faded — 
The comrades are scattered, the Chieftain is dead. 

Long, long has the bugle-note ceased its alarming. 
Long has the saber ))een merged in the plow; 

The Angel of Peace, all foemen disarming. 
Gives them an era of happiness now. 

Never more may I see martial costumes adorning 
The forms of the comrades I once learned to love; 

Yet I trust we may meet, in the brightness of morn- 
ing. 
In peace and in joy in the Great Camp above. 



« 




74 
vamm 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 



iKicaaKSi!iBiK«i!icgh.'«aEgh-«a(9KffaEgK;«i^KJii!ipK«apKsn 



lii^iii^aite^ai^ai 



THE GIRL WAS POOR. 

ON THE DEATH OF MISS JENNIE MALONEY. 

Again my wayward muse is off, in wild and varied 
flight, 

Though my weak pen but feeldy jjaints my rambling 
thoughts to-night; 

Far down the quiet, dreamy hours, I hear the num- 
bers ring, 

And hear the echoes, answering, a solemn message 
bring. 

That message comes in warning words, yet holds a 
lesson true, 

A blackened glass — though still some rays of sunlight 
glimmer through. 




THE ALTAE. 

Oh, sweet is the chorus of music up-raising. 

Sweet are the tidings that float on the air; 
Happy the voices that join in the praising. 

While softly around falls the spirit of pray'r. 

Proud heads are gathered to-day 'round the altar, 
Meek hearts are turned to the Master above; 

All pray that in duty they never may falter— 
The rich and the poor share alike in His love. 

Each prays that Jehovah may point out the duty 
A\Tiich, faithfully done, would be sweet in His 
sight; 
Each prays. tor a life that is Christ-like in beauty- 



> 



> 



IDLE RHYMINGS. ro 




A heart that endureth all things for the right. 



THE DEATH-BED. 

The tell-tale dews are gathering fast 

Upon that form of clay- 
Gone! Gone! That lovely life is past, 

Our friend is dead to-day. 

IN'o dainty hands upheld the head, 
Or soothed the fevered brow; 

They sit and mourn their sainted dead. 
Those little sisters, now. 

But few of all the happy throng 
Whose praising voices blend 

In singing each glad altar-song — 
Their cheering presence lend. 

Around God's death-bed altar, none 

Are met to sing and pray; 
But Christ comes, radiant as the sun, 

And l)ears the soul away. 

But few who hear the great church-bell 

The wintry storm endure; 
Few hear the last sad anthem swell — 

The dyin(] girl was jioor. 



i 



It may be that my fancy errs, to paint such scenes as 

this. 
It may be that I shall not reach a land of future bliss :^ 
But if a Christian heart does not the wail of sorrow 

heed, 




76 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 







Then, at the call of sense, and right, I'll seek some 

better creed ; 
I care not for the show of wealth — though wondrous 

fair to see — 
An honest, warm and noble heart is just the creed 

for me; 
A heart that treasures friendship's touch — that hears 

distress' cry. 
That fills with noble deeds the years so swiftly rush- 
ing by; 
A heart with love for all mankind— alike the great 

and small, 
That thought of malice never holds, but charity for 

all; 
A heart imbued with love divine— that sings a sacred 

song, 
A monitor that guides and guards the soul against 

all wrong. 
I cast aside all other creeds, no matter what they be — 
For, such a God-like heart as this is just the creed for 

me. 

THE BETTER LIWHT. 




Oh, why should I wander in darkness so long, 

Oh, why should I linger in doubt- 
While around me I hear the sweet chorus of song, 

The Christians' victorious shout ? 

Oh, why be a slave to the harrowing fears 
Of the scornful opinions of men ? 




IDLE BHYMINGS. // 






When Jehovah Immortal in Judgment appears. 
Oh, what shall the seorner say then? 

My soul in the darkness of midnight awakes, 

I see the dark sky growing l)right; 
In the East the bright Sun of Righteousness breaks, 

And my soul is enveloped in light. 

'Tis Jesus of Nazareth speaks to my soul. 

And sweet the glad messages fall; 
Upward my song of devotion shall roll, 

To the throne of my God and my All . 

The voice of the tempter may. woo me in vain 
From the vision mine eyes have beheld; 

My Savior the path of my duty makes plain, 
And sees all my doubtings dispell'd. 

Though shadowy clouds come over my sky. 

And my path be surrounded by sin. 
The voice of my Savior still utters the cry : 

"At the strait gate enter ye in." 

Oh, let my poor heart still echo the sound. 

And sweet be the gladness it brings! 
And sweet my rejoicing, while softly around. 

Heaven's pure melody rings! 

— ..O.^-^.O.i 

THE TRUTHFUL ORATOR 1 

I sit by the half-open window, 
And gaze at the gathering night; 

I see in the shadowy distance, 
A fitful glimmer of light. 



t 




78 IDLE BHYMINGS. 





I hear the voice of the "statesman," 
Boisterous, piercing and loud; 

As, with great assumption of wisdom 
He harangues the weary crowd. 

He spouts of "reform" and "retrenchment" 
Of things that ought to be done; 

And "he'll show, if we put him in power. 
Something new under the sun." 

He talks of "the duty of freemen," 
Of great deeds done in the past; 

Yet he dodges the point where History 
On his party its dark shadows cast. 

He tells of his love for the soldier — 
(Oh, impudence most. sublime!) 

He is taught that prevarication 
Must not be considered a crime. 

As I listen there rises before me 

A vision of days gone by; 
I see the brave boys marching forward. 

To labor, to suffer and die. 

I hear the fierce roar of the battle, 
I see ghastly heaps of the dead ; 

And see this same orator grinning. 
As the heart-breaking message is read. 

He rejoiced in the death of the "hireling," 
He rejoiced when the legions in gray 

Trailed in dust the glorious old banner — 
And he holds the same feelings to-day. 




« 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 79 



His curse of the "Old John Brown Raider" 
Has scarce died out on the air — 

Yet to-night he would fain overload him 
With praises and compliments rare. 

I hear his Munchausen-like stories, 

And, as the time (luickly flies, 
I shudder to think what a liar 

A man can be when he tries. 

As to-nig'ht I hear his wild statements, 
And think of the days long ago, 

I fear, lest the Lord, in his wis wisdom. 
Shall smite him and send him belom\ 

THE COAL MINER. 

Away from the glare of the morning light — 
Hid from the rays of the sunbeams bright. 

Close in his darkened room. 
In an atmosphere that is dull and damp, 
His only companions his pick and lamp, 

The miner works in gloom. 

From morn till evening his pick-ax swings. 
And the crumbling wall of his dark room rings 
From the blows of his sturdy arm. 
As he tund)les the ebony diamonds down 
'Neath a roof that hangs, with a lowering frown- 
• And he feels not the least alarm. 

For he firmly braces his narrow way. 




80 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 




As he labors onward, day by day, 

Through the dark and varying vein. 
And he carefully lays the narrow track. 
And brings the fruits of his lal)or back 

Till he sees the light again. 

The mill, the furnace, the parlor grand. 
Look to the work of his ready hand 

For food for their cheering tires; 
And the pleasant knowledge of doing good 
While earning his portion of daily food. 

The miner's heart inspires. 

Let wealth not sneer— let pride mock not 
The humble sphere of the miner's lot. 

He's the peer of any man ; 
While wealth is tippling its vintage old, 
The miner toils in the damp and cold, 

And does what good he can. 

Oblivious all to the sunbeams bright 
The miner toils in an endless night, 

By his flickering lamp's dull glare; 
With a tireless strength, and a careless song, 
Happy, contented, he toils along, 

In the damp and musty air. 

All hail to the miner with pick and pail. 
And heart that in danger will never fail. 

And a spirit bold and free! 
As he toils and sings in the mine so damp. 
With a heart more light than his blazing lamp. 

Who so happy as he? — 




> 




IDLE RHYMING S. Si 




t 



THE RIME OP THE ANCIENT CRANK. 



It is an ancient cranky man, 

"With wild and roving- eye; 
He halteth all who come his way, 

They ne'er may pass him by. 

The church-bell clangs its loudest tones, 
The throng- is gathering fast; 

He stoppeth all of three strong men 
Who tain would hurry past. 

" Keep thou away, thou gibing ape! 
Why should we tarry here? 
The church-l)ell rings, the house is full. 
The organ tones ring clear." 

" I, too, have sought the Living God," 

Thj? ancient crank replies; 
" And learned to look to Him in faith — 

That faith which never dies. 

" I looked to Him at even-tide, 
I looked to Him at morn; 
I trusted Him to make my hay, 
And plow my w^eedy corn. 

" Whene'er my harvest ready stood. 
Ripe for the reaper's hands; 
I trusted Him to house my grain, 
And till my fertile lands. 

" I prayed to Him to feed my stock. 
And keep my fences strong; 




82 



IDLE JRHYMINGS. 



a^agK»anK9anKjianKsaaKicpnKsanR^anK^^ 




I trusted Hiin to do the work — 
I prayed, the whole day long." 

" Why, what of this, to us," they cried. 

These three impatient men; 
" Behold! the service has begun, 

The organ peals again." 

" But hold thee!" said the cranky man, 
" The half is yet to tell; 
From morning light to dusky eve 
I prayed and worshiped well. 

" But all this time my crops did fail. 
My fences tumbled down; 
And ruin stared me in the face 
When came the autumn brown. 

" The weeds choked down my growing (H)rn, 
My hay with thistles grew ; 
My stock roamed sadly o'er the fartn, 
As never feed they knew. 

" With grim misfortune grasping me, 
I only prayed the more. 
Yet blessings came not, hut instead, 
More scanty grew my store. 

" I asked of her who shared my grief, 
To give the reason why 
I failed, while yet I watched and prayed, 
And thus she did reply: 

" ' Thrice blessed be the Divine command 
That bids us watch and pray ; 



J- 



\ 



But if we WORK as well as watch, 

We will succeed alway.' 
' I heeded well those telling words, 

I bless their wisdom still; 
I watched, and prayed, just as before. 

But labored with a will. 
' I saw the meadows rich and green, 

And blessed the waving plain; 
I saw great fields of beauty rise 

Rich with their stores of grain. 

" T learned full well this Idessed truth. 

Which every man should know: 
' Who helps himself his God will help,' 
For He hath willed it so." 
The loud church-bell had ceased to clang. 

The three men passed along— 
Xor will they, to their dying day. 

Forgot this lesson strong. 
And while they listened to the tones 
Of sermon rich and clear, 
" Who helps himself, his God will help," 
Rang in each listening ear." 
And they who mocked the "jibing ape," 

And from his clutches shrank. 
Now, from the fullness of their hearts. 
Did bless the ancient crank. 



t 




S4 



IDLE RHYMIJ\'GS. 






A WOODLAND REVERIE. 

Tired, as I sat beneath a mighty oak. 

And listened to the niunnur of the winds 
That now and then the solemn stillness broke — 
Shaking the boughs whereon the wild bird finds 
A home, and where the squirrels leap at play, 
Or, scampering, drop the acorns by the way. 

The measured clanging of a distant bell 

Told where the youth, reluctant, dragged to school; 
And childish shoutings rose in boisterous swell. 
While thoughts of "master" cross, and stringent 
rule, 
Served to retard the pace of ynuthful feet. 
That loitered carelessly along the street. 

The cattle grazed, content, in pastures green. 

And fattening sheep ranged on the verdant hill; 
Through the network of brandies, faintly seen. 
Though plainly heard, the rushing of th<^ rill. 
That gently murmured o'er its pebbly bed, 
Or through the narrow channel quickly sped. 

"V\Tiile sitting thus, a presence seemed to come. 

All unseen, though plainly felt and heard; 
And while I listened — with amazement dumb. 
There mingled with the sound of brook and bird 
A voice, that seemed to come from bush and tree^ 
And thus, in silvery tones, it spake to me: 

"Time is fleeting— Life is but a day. 

And soon for thee will come the noon-tide hour; 
Then let no useful hours be thrown away, . 




> 



\ 



IDLE RHYMIXGS. ' 85 



dKsapR^apf^aiBKeanRscanKcaiaRECiipBKicaniisiB^KxanKcii 

■iiaH iiI^JBBtiilBBteMBB te«BB teai«B>^JBiteiBite^Bih^a«Btei 

But labor while the master gives thee power. 
Soon will begin to fade the vital spark, 
As evening conieth, and the day grows dark. 

In Life's great struggle, do not lag behind — 
On every hand there's earnest work to do; 
And all of Christian work is not confined 
To lofty dome or ornamented pew. 
Whether in Church, where pealing anthems 

swell — 
Or in the outer world, the work's as well. 

In every l)lade of grass — each tree and flower, 

Each singing Ijird that hops from bough to bough — 
fio read the lesson of the Master's power; 
The running stream, the breeze that fans thy brow, 
And everything throughout Creation's plan. 
May an impressive lesson teach to man. 

Man's every righteous act is stowed away, 

His every noble impulse noted down; 
These will he find arranged on that great day 
Like pearls, to form a circlet for his crown — 
On that great day, when he is called to meet 
His earthly record, at the Mercy Seat." 

The voice was gone — the birds were sing'ng still, 

A happy chorus, in the forest deep; 
And still the music of the babbling rill 
Was heard, the same as when I dropped to sleep— 
For there beneath the oak— alone with God, 
I had been fast asleep upon the sod. 



i 




86* 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 







REMEMBER THE POOR. 

The chill winds of winter blow fierce 'round my 
door. 

The snow drifts deep by the hill; 
I sit here and Avatch the fagots that roar 

As with sparks the chimney they fill — 
And I think of the tenements, crazy and old. 

With scarce door or window secure; 
I hear the storm blowing, so bitter and cold, 

And pray God to pity the poor. 

As a shepherd who carefully watches his sheep, 

And shelters them safe from the storm. 
Oh, may He protect the mothers that weep — 

May He keep the little ones warm. 
While, happy, I sit by my fireside bright, 

Hap])y children romp over the floor; 
Yet 1 know there are hearts that are aching to-night* 

In the homes of the suffering poor. 

While the cold night winds so mournfully sigh, 

As in grief o'er the dying year. 
While the feathery flakes go whirling by. 

And the storm beats loud and drear — 
In my heart there springs an earnest desire 

To give of my humble store; 
For he but lends to the merciful sire, 

Who gives to the suffering poor. 

Oh, may iSelfishness find no place in my heart. 

But may nobler feelings prevail ; 
May I ever be willing to do a good part 





IDLE RHYMINGS. 87 




« 



In aiding the weak and frail! 
May the wail of the suffering, half -clad child 

Be heard in the land no more- 
No more may the shriek of the storm-winds wild 

Strike alarm to the hearts of the poor! 

THE FARMER IS KING. 

Oh, what is all the wealth of Art, 
Or beauties that it may impart ? 
What are riches that depart 

On fleeting wing? 
The farmer with a dauntless heart — 

He is a king. 

While the banker ponders o'er his books, 
The merchant stares with haggard looks; 
The student seeks the shady nooks 

In early Spring— 
The farmer, 'midst his fields and brooks, 

He is a king. 

Let the politician wag his jaw, 
The lawyer ponder points of law ; 
Or mechanic, with his plane and saw 

Make echoes ring. 
Still the conclusion we will draw; 

The farmer is king. 

While raging tempests sweep the tide, 
And ruin palaces that ride 




ss 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 




Upon the foamy billows wide, 

With canvas wing, 
The farmer views his fields with pride — 

He is a king. 

He enters not the great turmoil 
Of fierce debate and angry broil; 
He seeks not for the public spoil, 

In "clique" or "ring"; - 
Contentedly he tills his soil, 

He is a king. 

Let parties — by dissensions torn, 
And monarch, of his power shorn, 
Of all their griefs, and hopes forlorn. 

In anguish sing; 
The happy farmer plows his corn. 

He is a king. 

At last, his peaceful form is laid 
Beneath his favorite elm-tree's shade, 
The last great debt of Nature paid ; 

Then friends will bring 
Flowers, and deck the grave new-made, 

For the fallen king. 

— ..<:>.-^^.o<.. — ; 

THE BOOK AGENT. 



He saimtered in — a pleasant man, 
AVith warm and kindly smile. 

And ere his story he began 
We rather liked his style. 




J. 



\ 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 89 

He rolled his eyes around about— 

Spoke of the rains— the wheat— 
And from a pocket he drew out 

A great "prospectus" sheet. 

He started in the same old vein, 

His tongue ran fast and faster. 
The words came pouring out like rain — 

And of "wind" he was a master. 

The flow was checked— it's force was spent, 

As when one dams a brook 
So we did him, as off he went— 

We did not buy a book. 

THE HEROIC BLUE-BIRD. 

Little l)ird, why softly sing, 

On that bough so gay — 
While the frost doth nip thy wing, 
Oh, why dost thou stay V 

Get thee South, my little hero. 
The mercury approaches "zero." 

Now the snow is drifting high. 
And cold the Northern blast; 
riy, my blue-bird, quickly fly — 
To the Southward, fast! 

Get thee South, my little hero. 
The mercury approaches "zero." 

Dull and sad thy warblings sound 
To my freezing ears, 



( 





While the storm-Vjlasts roar around — 
Hast thou still no fears ? 

Haste thee South my little hero, 
While the mercury's at "zero." 

Still the storm- winds came and went, 

Still I hear them roar; 
The trees and shrubs with ice are bent— 
I hear my bird no more; 

For the mercury passed "zero" — 
In the snow-drift lies my hero. 

PASSING THOUGHTS. 



ON THE WRECKING OF AN EXCURSION TRAIN, 



I saw a party, gay— 

I saw them rush along. 

With shout, and jest, and song, 

Healthy, happy, strong, 

One summer day. 

I heard a whistle, shrill— 

I heard wild music swell. 
As on the dull air fell 
That party's gay "farewell,'' 

Nor dreamed of ill. 

The days fly swiftly on — 

The swiftly-rushing train, 
The music's wild refrain, 
I list for them again — 

But all are gone. 




> 



> 



IDLE RHYMIKGS. 91 






« 



I see an eager crowd, 

Within a lighted room, 

With faces stamped with gloom, 

As though some dreadful doom 

Hung like a cloud. 

'Tis the telegraph I hear — 

The bravest heart appalls 
While the sad message falls 
And in the mind installs 

An awful fear. 

That whistle shrieks again — 
But it is far away, 
And at the close of day— 
"A Treacherous Ijridge gives way 

Beneath the train!" 

They are returning home — 
Again I see the throng, 
Kot with shout and song, 
But mournfully along 

The road, they com?-. 

For He who ruleth all, 

Who counts the desert sands, 
Before whose great commands 
The stormy ocean stands, 

Who notes the sparrow's fall — 

Hath turned their joy to grief — 
Hath dealt the fatal blow. 
And caused sad hearts to know 




92 



IDLE BHYMIKGS. 




That "pleasures here below" 
Can be but brief. 

' Tis the twinkling of an eye— 

From healthy manhood's might. 
To death's consuming blight — 
When he takes his happy flight 
Beyond the sky. 

Then let us watch and pray — 

That when our time shall come, 
And we are summoned home, 
God will dispel all gloom, 

By endless day. 

KEEP A TRUSTINU HEART. 

"TAc Lord rcdeemeth the soul of hifi servants; and 
none of them that trust him shall be desolate.— Ps. 34—22. 

Though the clouds may hang at morning 

In the dull and silent sky, 
Clouds that give us timely warning 

That a tempest hovers nigh— 
We may pierce the veil so cheer-less, 

We may rift the clouds apart. 
If the soul be strong and fearless, 

And if true the Christain heart. 

Is the heat of noon oppressive, 

When the sun's rays brightest fall — 

Do our burdens seem excessive? 
There's a soothing balm for all ; 



J- 



V 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 93 



KMUi 



r^8i;^ai^ 



There's a great hand ever ready 

Kind assistance to impart, 
If our faith be strong and stead}% 

And we keep a trusting heart. 

Do the shades of evening hover 

Witli a didl and gloomy frovi^n, 
And our path with shadows cover, 

Ere life's svui has settled down ? 
If in faith our eyes uplifting. 

We may see the shadows part. 
And, through many a crevice sifting, 

Blessings for the trusting heart. 

For the Psalmist thus hath spoken — 

'Tis a message from on high — 
When the human heart is broken. 

Then our Lord is ever nigh ; 
When the world looks dark, despairing, 

We may bid all fears depart, 
If, His love and blessing sharing. 

We but keep a trusting heart. 

Though God's children be afflicted — 

Doubting, fearing, seem to faU — 
As the Psalmist hath predicted. 

He will bless and keep them all; 
He will cause the spring of gladness 

Jn the darkest soul to start. 
He will drive away all sadness, 

If we keep a trusting heart. 



t 




94 IDLE RHYMINGS. 



AMERICAN WHISKY. 



'\iy 



Jim Doolan was the tovig-hest lad 

Who lived in Tipperary ; 
At every "fair" and every play 

'Twas Jim who made it merry. 

But Jim had heard the golden tales 
From o'er the ocean wide, 

And longed to make himself a home 
Upon the other side. 

So, with his all packed in a trunk — 
"Poteen" was in his "tank" — 

He started for this Fairy-land, 
The covmtry of the "yank." 

With buoyant heart he reached the shore. 
He hummed a merry tune ; 
And a voyage safe to celebrate, 
He entered a saloon. 

Now, of his pur-e "poteen" at home 

A quart was joy to him ; 
80, of this Yankee drink he filled 

A timibler to the brim. 

He gulped it down — he looked around. 
With wildly-vacant stare ; 

Then sank upon that bar-room tloor — 
And perished, then and there. 



^-ii^ ^^ 



m^^w^^ 



V 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 95 



ah:«anKianKiiaaK;ennh::caE9h:«acgKsaiaR:caoh;«n(9K;cnRiK;:Cn 



t 



"Write to me folks !" poor Doolan said, 
With his last, ttickering breath — 
. "Tell all the Tipjierary boys 
/ died a natural deatli /" 

THE LAST "GOOD NIGHT!" 

The sun seems fading out, Jane, the wind blows loud 

and high. 
And heavy clouds are sailing on athwart the summer 

sky; 
Dim grows the fading vision of these old eyes of 

mine, 
While these old ears can scarcely hear the strong wind 

shake the pine. 
Ah, time moves swiftly on, Jane, I see the shadows 

fall— 
And through the portals, opened wide, I hear my 

Master's call: 
But while I'm drawing near the gates, and long to 

travel through, 
I'd leave, while pausing on this side, a parting word 

for you ; 
Though troubles may beset your path, and weigh 

your warm heart down, 
Remend)er, they who have no cross may never wear 

a crown. 
Though the world be harsh and cold, Jane, and hearts 

with sorrows bend. 
He loveth whom he chasteneth, and saveth in the end 




96 IDLE BHYMINGS. 



nRinnKianKiacaK^anKi!anhfiiaoKicanhi;«anK«nnK«nnK«n 



Oh, guard those darling boys, Jane, grandsons of 

yours and mine. 
About their youthful pathway, oh, let the true light 

shine ! 
Teach them to shim the inrtuence of town or city's 

charm — 
No evil can encompass them while working on the 

farm. 
Teach them to hold the Christian faith — that faith 

so l)road and deep 
That all the frailties of mankind it scatters with its 

sweep ; 
And while you teach them righteousness, this lesson 

good impart — 
That gratitude should largely dwell in ever Christian 

heart; 
Teach them to love their fellow-men, and, in the 

world's great school. 
Teach them that they be Christian men who keep 

the Golden Rule. 
I have had some success in life. I've always held my 

own, 
The kindness friends have shown to me, I have to 

others shown; 
I've always tried to shun the ways that merit For- 
tune's frown, 
And never tried to scrainl)le up by pulling others 

do.wn. 
Our Father's house, the universe, is ample, broad and 

free. 
There's room enough for all mankind — there's room 

enough for ine; 



J- 



> 



.-I-J1IIJ1JU-»JIIJIJ»«J» 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 




I've always - 



-but ah, 'tis growing dark, I see the 



great eloiuls roll, 
I see them blending, all in one, to form a mighty 

scroll. 
Which bears upon its gloomy face, in letters pure 

and bright— 
"Well done, thou faithful servant, enter into light !"' 
The clouds now slowly break away, I hear the great 

bells ring, 
And, to the time of tuneful harps, I hear the angels 

sing; 
I see new beauties rise to view, friends of my boy- 
hood days 
Are singing, sweetly singing, their songs of love and 

praise: 
I hear their soft and sweet refrain this simple story 

tell: 
"Who serves his (rpd can never fail to serve mankind 

as well." 
I hear ah, now the air grows chill — now fades the 

glimmering light! 
There, there! Dear Jane, 'tis going out! I long 

for rest! Good Night! 

FARMER BLIGH'S NEW YEARS REVERIE. 



I« 



The Western wind blows cold, Jane, it chills my 

withered frame — 
The once young, restless spirit is now subdued anil 

tame; 




98 IDLE RHYMINGS. 



KMnB^canKcanKsnafiiieonKsanRiiapRiciiniecanKca 



■teflBBte^alkB«BlteflHateflaBteflHateflBHfe»^4BHteJHitefllHteai 



No more I hold the plow, Jane, nor .swing the ax on 

high 
While von look on aclnuringlv, to see the white chips 

tiy. 

Ah, bright the Springtime dreams, Jane, when, 'neath 
the leafy bowers. 

We built our airy castles, and gave thera walls of 
flowers! 

Life was naught but sunlight then, and, while our 
love we told. 

The rays beamed on our trusting hearts in glittering 
showers of gold. 

But clouds are sure to follow, Jane, and nuir the sun- 
lit way. 

And bitter, blinding tempest take the place of sum- 
mer's day. 

I seem to-night to wander back and tread the long 
path o'er. 

And feel that, of my four-score years, I carry but a 
score; 

Then comes our wedding-day, Jane, I see the merry 
throng 

That gathered in the dear old house, with laugh- 
ter, jest and song: 

I see the years creep slowly by, with nought to love 
but you. 

Then greets me in our happy home, two eyes of heav- 
en's blue; 

Two little hands stretched out to me, and, greater joy 
than this. 

Two little lips put up each day to give the welcome 
kiss; 




J. 



\ 



IDLE BHYMINGS. ■>'^ 




e 



I see those little hands grow strong— that youthful 
head grow wise, 

While naught but manly honesty shone out from 
those blue eyes; 

Upon the dear old farm, Jane, we labored side by 
by side — 

No nobler heart nor readier hands e'er won a fath- 
er's pride. 

I see again the fateful day when, down the village 
street. 

Excited men were marching, while drums were loud- 
ly beat; 

And when our brave boy marched away as one of 
that brave band, 

We wondered if such tender eyes could guide a 
bloody hand. 

Time sweeps swiftly on. Jane, I hear the battle's 
roar, 

I hear the men shout "victory!" but hear Ms voice 
no more ; 

They told me he was brave, Jane, and like a hero 
died. 

And upward thnmgh my choking grief, I felt a swell- 
ing pride — 

Yet sorrow gained the sway. Jane, and clouded o'er 
my heart, 

And on the downward path of sin I made the dan- 
gerous start ; 

I sought relief in drink, Jane, you know the dreadful 
tale, 

We'll pass it l)y in silence— for mortal is but frail! 




100 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



mi^nmimaahimazifiima^himavahisaafimaaKmaJifimajafiimaaKmn 



I drew near ruin's dark abyss — I hovered on the 
fdjEfe, 

You rescued nie from danger then, and, Jane, I've 
kept my pledge! 

Yet the work was not your own, Jane, there is an 
unseen power 

AVho watches o'er our every act — who guards us ev- 
ery hour, 

And though in His great wisdom He took our dar- 
ling boy, 

He has showered us with blessings. He has filled 
our hearts with joy. 

In all the swiftly-fiying years, I have not lived in 
vain, 

God teaches me hiunility, and makes my duty plain. 

We're traveling swiftly down, Jane, our race is al- 
most riin — 

Perhaps another New Y'ears Day may find our labors 
done; 

But when the time has come, Jane, and we are called 
to go. 

We'll enter into Heavenly joys — we'll leave our griefs 
below; 

And, with our darling joined, Jane, we'll walk in ho- 
lier light — 

That glad inheritance of those who fight the Chris- 
tian's fight. 




J- 



> 



IDLE BHYMINGS. J<>1 




t 



THE CHURCH DEBT. 

Df^ar Marth, we'll never get it jiaid— the debt seems 

mountains high. 
We could not raise one-tenth the sum — so, what's the 

use to try ? 
Two hundred dolhirs! Only think! And not a cent 

in hand! 
Xo church upon God's l)looming earth such weighty 

load could stand. 
What! "Raise the sum Ity Socials'?" No, Martha, 

nary cent! 
The means are surely sinful, though righteous the in- 
tent — 
What! "Let us men pay off the del)t, and shun such 

sinful waysV" 
Ah, desprit hard to lind is he, the man who freely 

pays. 
What! "A Social held already, an' fifty dollars 

made?" 
Really, now, at that rate, the debt would soon be 

paid; 
But, to ])atronize a Social, is to show a sinful heart. 
And if you'll raise the rest without, I'll freely give 

my i»art; 
"How much money would I give to set the old Church 

free V" 
I really think that fifty cents woiild do right well for 

me — 
What! "TIad another Social, an' fifty dollars cleared?" 
Ah, now, dear Marth., we've reached the times that I 

have alius feared. 




102 



IDLE liHYMIKGS. 




Toward the sinful, worldly ways, we're travelin' l)y 

degrees, 
Whene'er we waste our money, attendin' tiling's like 

these— 
Hey? "Two more Socials have been held, an' all the 

debt is paid?" 
Ah, Martha, of such wicked ways I've alius been 

afraid ; 
The Social is a wicked thing-— it makes the Christian 

scoff — 
But, after all, I'm really g-lad /nt-'re got the debt paid 

paid off! 
Now when I gy to ("hurch again, to listen an' to nod. 
That load of debt will not loom up, to cloud my praise 

of God. 
And, while I'm opposed to Socials, on purely Chris- 
tian ground, 
I will admit they are, at times, good things to have 

around; 
And it I cannot have all men to walk my chosen 

track. 
The Lord forbid that I should try to hold another 

back. 
We should overlook each other's faults, and try to 

live aright. 
If we before our Father's face may walk in Holy 

Light. 
N"ow, Martha, though these Socials are fraight with 

bad intents. 
Of that two hundred dollars I've paid Just twenty 

cents! 




J- 



i 



S'^v ilS'^ • BWi* MIS'' • IB' : • MfS'^ • MfS' . • BB'v » MS . • BS'.' » MS j?il 



« 



THE SAFE LIGHT- HOUSE. 

Come. ]SIartha, dear, while from the hills the shining 
brooklet sprinjjs, 

And in the tall and nodding pine the red-bird's mu- 
sic rings, 

"While overhead the sky is blue, and bright the sun- 
beams fall, 

And sharply from the tangled hedge we hear the cat- 
bird call- 
Come, let us wander forth t<i-day, and breathe the 
balmy air. 

And view the smile on Nature's facP, that blooms so 
sweetly fair. 

And while we wander, let us learn, from bird, and 
tree, and brook, 

A long-enduring lesson, from Nature's open book. 

I've thought, dear Marth, as down the stream my 
bark has floated on — 

While far behind I see the night, l)efore I see the 
dawn, 

That everything in Nature's plan — each flower, and 
stream and bird. 

Each song among the forest trees, so soft, so sweetly 
heard, 

Is but the picture, magnified, of every hiunan life — 

Where grief gives way to pleasure, and joy gives 
way to strife, 

Where cloud and sunshine alternate, and raptur( 
smothers pain. 




lOi 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 




And hearts that bow in anguish soon are filled with 

joy again. 
How strangely intermingled, as we rush, the stream 

along, 
Are the wails of crushing sorrow, and the notes of 

happy song! 
"We may praise the sun at morning, and bless his 

presence bright, 
Y et may clouds of gloomy darkness hang on our way 

by night. 
How like the running brooklet, in youth we dash and 

play. 
And gather in the tender flowers that bloom along 

our way! 
Our hearts are filled with songs of birds, we see but 

beauty's beam, 
And singing to the eddying waves, we dance along 

the stream — 
But soon, too soon, will gath'ring floods disturb the 

rippling tide, 
And then our lives be borne along in torrents deep 

and wide; 
Yet, while we ride the sun-lit waves, or plunge the 

rapid fall, 
A mariner who rules the seas keeps watch above 

us all; 
Though the waters dash about us, and dreadful bil- 
lows roar, 
And our frail vessels ride the waves, or dash against 

the shore, 
We can brave the storm in safety, and defy the 

ocean's might. 







IDLE RHYMINGS. 105 




t 



If we but trust the mariner, and watch his beauteous 

light. 
Dear Marth., this billowy, rolling sea, which bears us 

us swiftly on, 
Will heave and murmur just the same when you and 

I are gone; 
These rolling waves on which the sun his light and 

beaty sheds, 
Forevermore will rave, and dash, and swell, above 

our heads; 
But, though we count as bubbles, now, upon life's 

roaring sea, 
'Mid all the rush and turmoil there's work for you 

and me. 
We may work amid the roaring waves, with strong 

and willing hands, 
And leave to those who follow us a wealth of golden 

sands; 
The roughest sea is smooth enough if but our hearts 

are right. 
And we keep our eyes fixed steadily upon the sacred 

light. 
What though the drift-wood strike us, and danger- 
ous reefs appear ? 

That light will shine above them all, and make our 
pathway clear. 

Though Death's cold damp may dim our light, and 

shut us from the land, 
That mariner can hold us in the hollow of his hand. 
That light still shines for you, dear Marth., that light' 

still shines for me, 




106 



■.u..-..il«»miM.i-'^itu»ui|jir^»r» 



IDLE BHYMI^'GS. 






And, following its bright luring beams, a voyage 

safe have we— 
Dear Martha, we will follow still, to us the light is 

given. 
That light which leads us forward is — the glorious 

Light of Heaven! 

FOOT-PKINIS. 

Somebody's darling is romping, to-day, 

Over the drifted heaps; 
While, past the scene of his boisterous play, 

The North-Wind coldly sweeps: 
Careless and free, with his rope and sled. 

He is ru^ hing to and fro. 
And dull is the winter sun-light shed 

On the foot-prints made in the snow. 

Out from the flre-side, cosy and warm, 

Wander the infant feet. 
Into the face of the driving storm — 

Into the drifted street; 
Borne on the breath of the storm-wind wild, 

The glad shouts come and go, 
That tell of the place where somebody's child 

Makes foot-prints out in the snow. 

Out from the hovel, where smoke and gloom 

But chill the warm young souls. 
Somebody's loved one flies from the room. 

And into the snow-drift rolls; 
No cast may distinguish the rich from the poor. 




J- 



V 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 



107 



■canK«anKsaaRsani»anKsapRSiiniHaiaKi*i]nK^gnK«n 



Alike their young hearts glow, 
For the child of wealth by the hovel's door 
Makes foot-prints out in the snow. 

Ah, pure young hearts! Could they ever be 

Kept free from Folly's chain, 
And, through the voyage upon life's sea, 

Know nothing of storm or of pain! 
But the clink of dollars may drown the joy 

We felt in the long ago; 
And the rich man forget the generous hoy, 

And the foot-prints out in the snow. 

The strongest man is a "child" once more 

AVhen age has dimmed his pow'rs, 
And he reads again, from Memory's store. 

Of his childhood's happy hours; 
And his heart returns, with a yearning love, 

Through the years that swiftly tlow — 
To the merry hours when he played above 

The foot-prints made in the snow. 

Oh, that our hearts could be ever true 

To the precept Christ hath given, 
That we might walk, life's pathway through, 

By the cheering light of Heaven! 
And ever, with heart-felt joy, repeat 

The happy shouts that flow 
From the fleecy drift, where the little feet 

Make foot-prints out in the snow. 



i 




108 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



|^DD^aB^anK^anK«anR^iinR2aaKjiapKsanii» 



" MERRY CHRISTMAS. " 



The Christmas bells are chiming in many a steeple 
tall, 

The old year is retreating. 
And happy hearts are beating — 
While thoughts of Merry Christmas hang lightly 
over all. 

The wintry wind blows chill and cold against the 
window-pane, 

The snow-bird gaily flutters 

About the creaking shutters. 
And tells in joyful chatterings of winter come again. 

The earth is dull and cheerless — the forests dead and 
bare. 

The wintry breezes sighing, 
The dead leaves w ildly flying. 
Make up the dreary spectacle of winter everywhere. 

The sun pours down a fitful light upon the landscape • 
brown. 

With many a flitting shadow, 
Over wood and meadow. 
Until upon the Western hills he hangs his golden 
crown. 

Thus the shadows come and go, throughout life's 
changeful way — 

Light and shade descending, 
Joy and sorrow blending. 
While pleasure and despondency alternate hold the 
sway. 




J- 



> 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 



KM 




To-day we see, with gladdened eyes, the pleasures of 
the world. 

We think not that to-morrow, 
Bowed down with deepest sorrow, 
We may along the ever-changing stream of time be 
whirled. 

Young hearts around the Christmas-tree are filled 
with joy sincere. 

While happy voices singing, 
And laughter loudly ringing, 
Compose a pleasant requiem upon the dying year. 

Dear hearts! May all the future years find them as 
light as now! 

While Care with ruthless fingers. 

About their pathway lingers, 
May he ever fail to trace his mark upon each brow. 

Age feels the fire of yuth again, and joins the bois- 
terous call — 

And while the bells are ringing. 
The sweetest memories bringing. 
Let all repeat the happy shout: "A Merry Christmas 
All!" 



i 




no 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 







OXE CHRIST3IAS! 

Not the "Mt-rij" One ! 

Kriss Kingle sat on the chimney old 
Braving the blasts of the winter's cold. 

As the steeple clock struck the midnight chime, 
Kringle was joined by Father Time, 

The pair descended the chimney l)lack, 
The one with his glass— the other his pack. 

And cautiously entering the room below, 
Lightly shook oft' the gathered snow. 

Then Kriss looked about, with a dubious leer. 
Partly of doubt, and partly of fear. 

Then, turning to Time, with a shake of the head. 
And trembling voice, Kriss Kingle said: 

"This is not the bright home I know. 
That I visited one short year ago. 

"Then this hearth shone bright and warm. 
While raged without the wintry storm. 

*'Two bright children sweetly slept 
In that bed there, while I softly crept, 

"And four new stockings filled heaping o'er 
With presents fine from my pack's full store. 

"Two parents were wrapt in slumber profound— 
And peace and happiness reigned around. 

"But now the picture is sadly changed. 
The rooom is squalid and disarranged; 




IDLE RHY MINGS. 



Ill 



^ 




t 



''Where I then saw happiness now I see woe- 
Pray tell me, pood Father Time, why is this so?" 

"I give," said Time, "to each mortal here 
An allotted space for his earthly career. 

"Some improve the years as they go. 
And seem content to have it so; 

"Others, wearying of my slow pace. 
Attempt to lead me a swifter race. 

"And, heedless of the hearts that pray. 
Rush headlong down on their sinful way. 

""Where last year you saw that manly form, 
There, by the fireside bright and warm, 

"See, tossing alone, in a trou1)led sleep, 
A faded woman, with eyes sunk deep. 

"Where then the four new stockings were hung. 
Two ragged and patched ones now are strung. 

For one little pair of those infant feet, 
Now tread, up yonder, the golden street. 

"One little heart, with its load of care. 
Has found a blessed release up there. 

"Freed now from the stench of a drunkard's breath- 
For God is merciful, even in death. 

"He who should l)e a protector here — 
AVho now sits tippling his poisonous beer, 

"Who now is rushing his short life through, 
Is shortening the time of these dear ones too 




112 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 



iK«DnKcaafi£ciinKiiaiaRica^Kicanf»a{BR«anKBapKrsapR«a 




Then Kringle proceeded, while all was still. 
The patched and tattered stocking to fill. 

As his task was finished, a maudlin sound 
Began to wake the echoues around — 

Curses and imprecations wild, 

Mingled with threats against mother and child. 

Then a sudden groan smote the night-air chill, 
Kesounded a moment, and all was still. 

Then Kringle turned to where Time stood 
Viewing his glass in solemn mood. 

The sounds had ceased; quiet reigned about. 
The sands of the ylasss had all run out ! 

Up through the chimney — out in the night, 
Kriss Kingle hastily took his flight. 

He saw, as he passed the dark street o'er, 
The drunkard lay dead at his wretched door. 

And, viewing the sad scene once again, 

Said, "How strangely we mingle the ji»y and pain! 

"From my store I left presents for mother and boy, 
Which may serve to give them a moment's joy; 

"But Time did the best for the suffering pair- 
Tor the mother, worn, and the child so spare, 

"When the drunkard's last sands he permitted to fall; 
And death was the best Christmas-gift of all!" 




±1 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 113 



RESPECT THE AGED. 

His frame was bent with scores of years- 

His brow was sad and pale; 
And mindful not of scoffs or jeers, 

He walked, with footsteps frail. 

Some gawky boys "made sport" of him. 

Some boys with manners rude; 
And pranced before his vision dim, 

In threatening attitude. 

But carelessly hew andered on 

Until, beside the way. 
His failing eyes were fixed upon 

A gallows, grim and gray. 

With solemn air he eyed the beam, 
Then vie w ed tlie urchins wild — 

While lit his eyes with sudden gleam, 
And gleefully he smiled. 

"Life is." he said, "a fertile field. 
And these the growing grain; 

There's promise of a bounteous yield — 
The harvest comes again." 

Then, pointing to the gallows stair: 
"These are the barnyard gates. 

These sheaves will soon be carried there- 
Behold, the reaper waits!" 



« 




114 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



iK^DffliifflapBii.sagKfliDBKsn^KcapK'fla^K^nn 



■■te«BI 



'< TEXAS JIM!" 




With eye of eagle and strength of bear, 
■With jingling spurs and martial air, 
Stalwart of frame, and mighty of limb. 
Such is the dangerous Texas Jim — 
The man who eats his enemies, 
The wonderful Texas Jim. 

Into the bar-room, boldly he goes, 
Caring not whether his friends or foes 
Are they who gaze in wonder at him. 
The war-like, man-eating Texas Jim— 

The man who slays his enemies. 

The frightful Texas Jim. 

Knives and pistols his clothes contain, 
A ritle across his arm is lain; 
While just without, in the twilight dim, 
Stands the stolen horse of Texas Jim— 

The man who slashes his enemies. 

The horrible Texas Jim. 

"Any man want ter try me a few ?" 
Said Jim, as on the floor he threw 
His old slouch hat, with its drooping brim. 
The crowning beauty of Texas Jim— 

The man who chops his enemies, 

The bloody Texas Jim. 

"Won't fight, eh ?" the ranger said, 
As he planted a "stunner" upon the head 
Of a quiet gentlemen, short and slim— 



J- 



> 



IDLE RHYMIXGS. 115 




But that was the worse for Texas Jim — 
The man whp "chaws" his enemies, 
The terrible Texas Jim. 

That small man tumbled him upside down, 
Battered his nose, and broke his crown, 
Piimmeled his eyes, till his sight was dim. 
And he howled for mercy, this Texas Jim — 

This man who murders his enemies. 

This blood-guzzling Texas Jim. 

^N'ow you who this simple tale peruse, 
When sauntering forth your foes to bruise, 
Take heed lest your sails they roughly tim. 
For roughly they handled poor Texas Jim — 

The man who crushes his enemies. 

The murdering Texas Jim. 

Always in mind this lesson keep- 
Be careful to look before you leap; 
Look to the safety of life and limb. 
Remember the error of Texas Jim — 

The man who eats his enemies. 

The dangerous Texas Jim. 

Wherever you go, throughout life's span, 

Be kind and civil to every man; 

Never give way to a dangerous whim, 

For such was the folly of Texas Jim — 

The man who found the wrong enemy. 
The badly-whipped Texas Jim. 



« 




116 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



iKaiaB^iiig^iagKflDSiKiiigKiai9iRian^an^anK^anRia 



"SCHOOL IS OUT!" 

Silently the bell is hanging 

In its lofty dome; 
No more its loud and measured clanging 

Bids the pupils come. 

Gladly youthful hearts are dancing, 
Filled with golden stores — 

Gleefully young feet are prancing 
From the school-room doors. 

Now will black-boards, dim and dusty, 

Grace the silent wall; 
And the pens lie blunt and rusty. 
Till the coming Fall. 

Soon in meadow and in wild-wood. 

Will their laughter ring; 
In the hearts of happy childhood 

Reigns eternal Spring. 

Oh, may each one pass vacation 

Without grief or care! 
May no evil visitation 

Touch these children fair! 




J- 



> 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 117 




THE OLD PORT. 

Grim, lonely bank, upon whose rounded brow 

The oaks, majestic, stand as pickets now. 

Where hemlock, pine and poplar stand arrayed. 

Upon the spot where once the firm stockade 

Defied the onslaughts of the savage foes. 

The rtying arrows and the vicious blows. 

What memories weird rest on this lonely scene — 

What legends wild surround this forest green I 

Where once the war-whoop broke from savage throat 

The blue- jay. fearless, screams his uncouth note; 

Where murderous rifies smote the air of Spring, 

The black-bird peaceful plumes his jetty wing; 

And naught recalls the strife of other days. 

Save the low bank on which the chipmunk plays. 

Yet does the bank, within the woodland dell. 

In language plain its varied story tell. 

Gone, gone are all— they have been hidden long, 

The hands that made this rude embankment strong — 

Gone are the walls, each log has disappeared. 

Which those strong, hands in friendly shelter reared; 

Yet their example lives in memory still, 

Those men of sturdy hands andiron will; 

Theirs w^as the hardship — theirs the danger post, 

Theirs to battle 'gainst the savage host; 

And, ere their labors were allowed to cease, 

They hewed the path for Progress, Joy and Peace. 

So may we, who journey here to-day, 

Upon the sod that wraps their mouldering clay. 

When we are called from earth to that Great Home 

Leave lighter work for those who are to come. 



« 




118 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 



'^nn^aDR£ianK^apKiiapfi^DnRSDpKsapKsapK«anKiSa 





THE ROBIN'S SONG. 




"Now unto God and our Father he glory for ever 
and ever." — Phillippians, 4—20. 

The sunlight on the Eastern hill 

Bespeaks the rising dawn, 
And through the twilight, soft and still, 

The day is marching on; 
From many a barren Ijranch o'erhead, 

The sweetest warblings ring, 
And all about are freely spread 

The signs of coming Spring. 

Forth from many a narrow cell 

The early grasses creep. 
Where, like some sweet, enchanted spell. 

The South-winds gently sweep; 
The robin pours his warbling cry 

To greet the opening day. 
And far and near, and low and high, 

Kesounds his merry lay : 

"'Tis pleasant to greet the bright dew-drops at 
morning, 
'Tis pleasant to see the grass green on the lawn; 
To see, in the East, the rose-tints adorning 
The brightening sky which betokens the dawn. 

Yet the jewels of morn ere sunset have vanished— 
Each sparkling dew-drop is driven away; 

As when, from the soul, all good thoughts are ban- 
ished, 
And the Spirit of Evil directeth its way. 





IDLE RHYMINGS. 



nu 






« 



I sang yesterday by a household of sorrow — 
My song sadly blended with sorrow's deep cry; 

But the shadows to-day may be sunshine to-morrow, 
And the darkest cloud fade from a sun-lighted sky. 

To-day I may sing where sunshine and beauty 
Gladden the young lives around the hearth-stone; 

WTiere loving hearts seek to discharge every duty, 
And earth's cares and sorrows are ever unknown. 

I pause not to see if the shadows may lengthen, 
I strive by my singing to drive them away ; 

With a prayer to the Father my faint heart to 
strengthen, 
I warble my song through the gloomiest day. 

By wealth's conscious smile or poverty's sorrow, 
Thus, day by day, do I journey along; 

Yet the cares or the joys of this world cannot borrow 
One warbling note from the joy of my song. 

The song of God's glory forever is ringing— 

To me by Intinite Love it is given; 
And while in these branches to-day I am singing, 

My song is a part of the music of Heaven." 

I looked again — the bird was gone, 

But still his merry lay. 
In my poor heart kept singing on 

Throughout the balmy day. 
Oh, that in life's great battle I 

May do a glorious part ! 
And through joy's smile or sorrow's cry 

E'er keep a singing heart. 




120 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



I^NBBR^DlRlJDgllKlJDSaK^iligKlJDSBKlligKl 



And whether flowers may bloom in Spring 

Or snows in Winter fall, 
May I each day his praises sing, 

The blessed Lord of All ! 
And like the robin, day by day. 

Infinite joys prolong. 
And sing God's love and praise alway, 

In notes of happy si -ng. 

"<=•- =$ -^oO.. 

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. JUOGE TRIPP. 

Kow hangs the gloomy emblem on the door, 
And quiet reigns within the darkened room; 

We speak her name, but she replies no more, 
Though calls a voice within the settling gloom : 

"Mother's Dead!" 

Upon that casket— wreathed in snowy flowers. 
Which holds the form of her we loved so well. 

Where fall our tears in bitter, blinding showers. 
Flower and leaf this simple story tell: 

"Mother's Dead!" 

Now point the orphan to the God of Love, 

Tell of new beauties found beyond the sky- 
Tell of a meeting in the world above. 
But marvel not to hear the sad reply: 

"Mother's Dead!" 

A golden ray of light falls from afar. 
To drive the shadows from our path away. 




> 



\ 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 



121 






"\Ye see her live, a brightly-rising star, 
Yet intervening shadows seem to say: 

"Mother's Dead I" 

Dead to us. though grandly living still — 
A glorious life, whose joy shall never cease, 

Where songs of praise the happy moments fill — 
And weary souls may find eternal peace — 

"Mother Lives!" 

Dead— yet liveth! Oh, the happy thought— 
Oh, sweetest promise e'er to mortals given! 

Now, through the l)lest redemption Jesus brought. 
Her spirit, freed, has winged its way to Heaven. 

"Mother Lives!'' 

— ..o»^^.<s>=. — 

A PASSING CL(>UI). 

On a temporary reverse to the Temperance cause. 

The shadows fall— along the darkening path 
Vainly we seek some cheering ray of light; 

The gloomy Heavens seem to look in wrath 
To see the evil triumph o'er the right. 

Yet through the gloom we see the coming morn, 
\''et through the night behold approaching day; 

Nor shall we pause for each impeding thorn 
That rears upon the si^face of our way. 

A faltering heart will ne'er achieve success, 
But failure will attend a wavering will; 



t 




122 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 




Happy the heart which, through a deep distress. 
Can see the light of hope bright burning still. 

Though mortal weakness of itself must fail — 
Though mortal eyes are oft perverse and blind. 

One rules above, whose power can avail. 
To bless the world, and elevate mankind. 

If we but look, with trustful eyes, to Him 
Who rules the slorm, who notes the sparrow's fall 

We soon shall see — though now our path be dim, 
The light from Heaven shining over all. 

Though sin may-triumph for a fleeting hour. 
Though evil minds rejoice with noisy glee. 

Justice will come, and, Ijy a w ord of pow'r, 
Drive off the the clouds, and set our spirits free. 

Speed on the work! Brave men are ready now. 
To bear the banner on, with steady hand. 

With giant hearts, and with a righteous vow. 
To wipe this curse of mortals from the land. 

Even now the gloomy night begins to fade. 
Even now we see the signs of coming dawn; 

We hear a sweet voice from beyond the shade — 
It calleth to us all; "march on! makch on!" 




J- 



y 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 1'2:> 

■^^■'■■ni2i*'mtl2ir:9r' ^^'•vt^ jr'«r» ^'Vf' jr '«ir* Jr-'«y* jr'«ar* j^"'«ir.' Ji^'^8« 

aV • Mts'^. • ■»%' • ■«■%" • aB\" • ars^v.- iis'> ats^' • aB%' • mn^: • ma^;- • 1 



TO A ( ANAKY. 



Thou tiny warbler, from whose merry throat, 
There issues such a joyous, hapjjy note, 
Couldst thou but know tlie joy thy song imparts 
To v\ eary, sad, and overladen hearts. 
Thy glorious voic^e more frequent we would hear, 
Swelling its notes of praise so sweet and clear. 
Thy voice reminds nie of my boyhood's times. 
When, heedless even of the church-bell's chimes. 
To the wild wood I ran, with eager tread, 
And, listening to the sweet notes overhead. 
Would wish that 1 like a wild bird could be, 
And make my home in every forest tree. 
But then, chill, freezing winter comes at last. 
With ice, and snow, and fierce, tempestuous blast ; 
The wild bird then must quit his song sublime, 
And seek some warmer, more congenial clime. 
Thy life is different; thou hast nought to do 
But sing, and l)e content, the long day through ; 
Xor care for winter's ice nor winter's snow. 
Nor when thy wildwood cousins come and go. 
A useful lesson from thy life we learn — 
That no matter how for other scenes we yearn, 
To accept that which indulgent Heaven has sent, 
With deep humility, and be content. 
And may we, whether life be short or long, 
Make it, like you, one gUid and happy song ! 



« 




IM 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 






Or >k(^^IKW^t*^^IKa' ^[^^HUr akt^^lDv ^^l™ ^HUr ttl^^^HKV jkI^^^BKw ^tl^'^^lUr 4l^^^H* fiAl iHK* -ft\ ^H 




FLOWERS 



On seeing a'poquet of fioivers placT.d in the pulpit 
at'CJiurch. 



Brighter than words these painted gems of thought, 
Of fragrance sweet and coloring refined: 

A pleasure by the hand of Mature wrought, 
To touch the heart, and elevate mankind. 

Oh, beateous emblems of the loving heart— 
Oh, fond expressions of the Christian will! 

Though soon the petals fade, and fall apart , 
Their intluence will linger round us still. 

What holy lessons teach the tender flowers— 
What Heaven-taught beauties grace their slender 
stems! 

No crushing storms, nor drenching summer showers. 
May kill the beauty of these tiny gems. 

Blest be the life that finds, in things like these. 
Sweet voicings of its inmost thoughts of love! 

Happy the mind that in their beauty sees 
A borrowed splendor from the world above. 

Oh, may the soul that sent these emblems bright. 
E'er keep the path by His true children trod; 

And, in the rays of Heaven's purest light, 
'Mid joys immortal, ever walk with God 




±1 



IDLE HHYMINGS. 



12') 






« 



JOY. 

There's a joy in the summer morning, 
When the sun is shining fair, 
And the humming bees, 
And the blooming trees, 
Rejoice in the balmy air. 

There's a joy in the sultry noon-day. 
And peace in the quiet sky ; 

When through the flow'rs 
The golden hours 

Are sw iftly rushing by. 

There's a joy in the evening shadow 
That steals o'er the heated ground; 
When the flre-Hy's light. 
In glances bright. 

Is quickly flashing 'round. 

There's a joy in the peaceful glimmer 
That hangs on the moon-lit hill; 
When soft and slow 
Eloats to and fro 

The note of the whip-poor-will. 

There's joy in a thousand fancies 
That gladden the human soul — 
And hearts are gay 
As a summer day, 

As the moments onward roll. 

But there's many a lonely dwelling 
Where joy ne'er enters in; 

Where grief has come, * 





Through the curse of nun, 

And a life is filled with sin. 

And prayers ascend that freemen 
By their votes will drive away, 
Forever more, 
Fiom each wretched door. 

The horrors that 'round it play. 

Let us rise to discharge of duty, 
As brave and honest men. 
And strike one blow 
At this horrid foe, 

Which shall bring us joy again. 

And the God who loves the widow. 
And hears the orphan's cry, 
Will drive away 
Each cloud to-day, 

From our calm domestic sky. 

THE DEATH STREAM. 

Here, beneath this sheltering tree. 
Bring my battered harp to me — 
Let me wring one measure more. 
From its widely-scattered store; 
Let the tlying moments sing 
To its sadly-tuneful ring; 
Not in tales of heroes bold. 
Ruined walls, or castles old. 
Maiden fair, or lover true, 
Debits old chords ring anew; 



^ 



> 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 127 




t 



From its soft and trembling' strings 
Yet a sadder measure springs: 

Soft and still the summer morning 
Opes before our dreamy eyes, 

While the sun— the hills adorning— 
Glimmers from the misty skies. 

In the branches birds are singing 
Song's of hope and love divine; 
In our souls glad hopes are springing — 
As we view the glittering shrine. 

Thus full many a son in glory 
Rises in life's morning light, 

But is found— oh, sad the story — 
Fallen ere the dreamy night. 

Wisdom lures in vain his senses 
As the sad years onward roll. 

But a cruel fate dispenses 
Death unto his weary soul. 

As the sun at eve is sinking 
Down the dark'ning Western sky 

So the son— dread poison drinking — 
Thus abrupt must sink and die. 

Mothers' prayers and fathers' pleading 
Cannot stay the deadly tide — 

Sons and brothers, all unheeding 
Plunge into the torrent wide. 

While this horrid stream is flowing. 
Flowing all along life's main, 




128 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 




Down to death pure lives are going. 
To a death of endless pain. 

Over all this stream is Hying 
Sounds of mortal griefs and fears, 

While the hosts of angels, crying. 
Wash its shores with bitter tears. 

Soft the measure dies away — 
Now its chords have ceased to play, 
While its trembling echoes fall 
Faintly, sadly, over all; 
Still its grievous burden be 
Song of human misery. 
Oh, wake, my harp, to sweeter songs- 
Happier themes than moital wrongs. 
Better, holier days to come. 
When this horrid sale of rum 
Be forever cast aside 
And our God be glorified. 
Neighbors, freeman, rally now. 
With God's love upon each brow. 
Do His bidding well and He 
Will assure us victory — 
Aid our efforts by his might. 
And give us triumph for the Right. 




J. 



> 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 12!) 



■iwMMitiMMHiiiMMBiii*'MiiiK«SiiiiiaS 



* 



THE TATTERED COAT. 

"Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, 
inJiere moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves 
break through and steal." — Matt, b— 19. 

Heed him not— know him not — pass him by in dis- 
dain. 
As a creature unworthy of note ; 
Whnt right has he to feel sorrow or p;iin — 
' Has he not on his life that indelible stain, 
The curoC of a ra .tered coat? 

Though wearily dragging along life's way, 

And pleasures l)e far remote, 
"The signs of low breeding all over him play," 
For, does not his very appearance betray 

The curse of a tattered coat ? 

What though his heart should sadden and break, 

And the wail of despond encv float 
From the soul — more sad than tongue ever spake. 
The sorrow be his, for "wealth cannot take" 

The curse of a tattered coat. 

Let those who respect such creatures as he, 

Fine Scriptural passages quote; 
And tell of the l)eauty of souls set free — 
But the saddest misfortune forever will be 

The curse of a tattered coat. 

"Blessed are the meek," the Savior said, 

And still the impressive note 
Falls pure and sweet 'round the penitent head, 



^?^y^ 




pfii^aBBaiinK»aDK^anKsaBK9aaR»a^K^anK^aa 



130 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 



And a Father's blessing is richly shed 
On the heart 'neath the tattered coat. 

Thou God who created the rich and the poor, 

What can all this sorrow denote? 
Can it be that the soul or the life is impure. 
Or, why are thy creatures thus called to endure 
The curse of a tattered coat ? 

Oh, speed on the time when thy children shall all 

To thy kingdom their efforts devote; 
When the accents of scorn no longer shall fall. 
And the child of humility never recall 
The curse of the tattered coat. 

When upward the sound of thy praises shall fly. 

And through the blue ether shall float; 
And Heaven shall hear and answer the cry — 
Then, driven away by a bright summer sky 
The curse of a tattered coat. 

EVENING. 




The shadows fall 
Athwart the wall, 

The sunlight gilds the eaves, 
And through the trees 
The summer breeze 

Bestirs the clustering leaves; 
The whip-poor-will 
Calls from the hill 

In cadence soft and sweet, 



ii 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 



131 




« 



While through the glades 
The cooling shades 

Drive out the summer heat. 

A peace, a rest — 
A halo blest, 

Hangs o'er the heated ground, 
The fire-fly's light 
Illumes the night 

In brilliant flashes 'round; 
The weary toil, 
And fierce turmoil. 

That life's pathway attend, 
Into the past 
Have flown at last. 

Where glimmering shadows blend. 

Still'd is the song 
Of mortal wrong — 

A holier strain instead, 
Comes floating down 
The shadows brown. 

Upon each peaceful head. 
A song of love 
From realms above. 

The dreamy senses greet. 
And soft and clear 
The evening air 

The cheering notes repeat. 

Thvis, when life's day 
Shall pass away. 

And evening shadows roll 




In cooling' wave, 
And gently lave 

The toiling, wearied soul, 
May we behold 
A tinge of gold 

Athwart, our sunset sky, 
Whose radiant pow'r 
Points out the hour 

When Jesus passeth by. 

THE VILLAiiE OF THE DEAD. 




On yonder gently-sloping hill, 
Where the sun's tirst rays are shed. 

With its snowy columns, cold and still, 
Lies the Village of the Dead. . 

Lowly laid in their silent sleep, 

Their mantle the virgin sod. 
They are heedless, all, of the friends who weep, 

For their sleep is the peace of God. 

Why mourn we over the crumbling clay 

That lies in the narrow cell V 
Their spirits are dwelling above us to-day. 

With the Master who loves them well. 

We may cover the mounds with tender flowers, 
We may view them with tearful eyes; 

Yet naught to them is this grief of ours, 
For it may not pierce the skies. 




IDLE RHYMINGS. IHH 



R;cBSK«anii?«a9KflaaK«anh;icogKsan(i£ciiEgiiHianR£eiiBiKsn 



m 



TELEGRAPHERS' REUNION. 

"Open the key!" Alon? the line to-night. 

Call up the boys; 
Touch up the "locals!" Let us all unite 

In social joys! 

"Open the key!" Send forth the signal loutl — 

Call every man! 
Let us unite, a joyous, happy crowd, 

While yet we can. 

"Close the key!" The lightning answer rings. 

From comrades gay; 
From all along our social line there springs 

The glad "O.K!" 

Put on new "cups," while 'round the festal board. 

We sit to-night; 
"Test all the wires!"— while every mind is stored 

With memories bright. 

Oh, may they ne'er depart — our joys sublime! 

Xor dim our fires; 
Until the ruthless hand of Father Time 

"Cuts off" our wires! 



t 




134 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 



iR£iDnii»agK»anii.^anR2aBK9aDKxanK^a 




THE DRUNKARD. 

Eeel, stagger, reel! 

With tottering heel — 
With many a weird and hideous grin, 
Laden with whisky, beer and gin. 
Wearily toiling, day by day. 
The drunkard tumbles along life's way; 

And every hour 

More helpless in the Demon's power. 

Reel, totter, reel! 

Nor seems to feel, 
The degradation of his crime 
The dreadful loss of manhood's prime — 
The scorn of foes, the shame of friends, 
Swiftly the piteous wretch descends; 

A poor outcast, 

He fills a drunkard's grave at last. 

Reel, shuffle, reel. 

While terrors steal 
Upon his wretched, guilty soul; 
And while his wild eyes restless roll. 
He sees a thousand horrors play 
In threatening aspect 'round his way — 

And goblins, grim. 

He ever sees pursuing him. 

Reel, tumble, reel! 
The years reveal 
The dreadful tumult of his life, 



J- 



IDLE BHYMINGS. Jo.') 



t 



The suffering soul, the wearying strife, 
The manhood wrecked — the hope destroyed, 
A lifetime made a sickening void ; 

Oh, count the cost — 

A drunkard's grave, and— Heaven lost! 

SHATTERED HOMES. 



''There/ore hdl hath enlarged herself, and opened 
her mouth without measure." — isniah, f—u- 



Oh, not with all of j«»y to-day, we see the moments 
Hying, 

For, mingled with the songs of birds, are sounds of 
mortals crying; 

And, on the merry breath of Spring, through richest 
verdure straying. 

Soft and sad is borne along the sound of mothers 
praying. 

While Spring comes, with a lavish hand, her boun- 
teous, gifts bestowing. 

Green on the drunkard's grave, to-day, the early grass 
is growing. 

His was a life that bloomed as fair as skies of sum" 
mer's morning, 

A lovely life, through early years a happy home 
adorning; 

A life that claimed a father's pride, a mother's ear- 
nest blessing. 





1H6 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



ifi»anRiaans9onii^pnKannB»an^anKsa 



Yet, in the tempter's cruel snare, the parent lives dis- 
distressing — 

There are broken hearts that come to weep, and eyes 
with tears are rtowing. 

Around the drunkard's lonel>- grave, where the early 
grass is growing. 

There are homes where sorrow holds the sway, and 
where no joyous greeting 

Shall daily render glad the the hour where love with 
love is meeting; 

A broken ship, along life's sea, that family bark is 
sailing, 

And where there should be joy and mirth, we hear 
Init sad bewrtiling. 

Yet, daily, mortals are engaged distress' seed in sow- 
ing, 

And seek to till the drunkard's grave, where the ear- 
ly grass is growing. ' 

Oh, can it be that men shall view such scenes and 

still be heedless? 
Then all of Gospel-preaching fails, and Jesus' death 

was needless; 
For, strong men view the earth to-day with startled 

contemplation- 
Behold! A beastly appetite can shake a mighty na- 
tion. 
But, honor in mankind still lives, and hearts with 

pity flowing 
Bedeck, with tiowers, the drunkard's grave, where 
the early grass is growing. 




J- 



\ 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 1H7 




To him who makes the softest breeze, and rules the 
raging l)illows — 

AVho maketh e'en a dying bed, "as soft as downy pil- 
lows," 

We look, to-day, with humble hearts, and faith which 
naught may sever. 

And trust God's Justice and the Right may rule 
and reign forever; 

And pray that He may come in might, His love and 
power bestowing— 

Till on a drunkard's grave no more we'll see the 
grasses growing. 

— ..<>«^ ^=<>,. — 
"TOM'S TRAIN IS IN!" 



« 



Hark! What sounds are those that float 
So sadly on the wintry breeze? 

Sounds as of music, far remote, 
Come stealing through the distant trees. 

It seems an old, familiar sound — 
Dear wife, we've heard it many a day, 

Reverberate along the ground. 
Or 'round the window shutters play. 

We've heard it down the dusty vale. 
And through the wood, and up the road. 

As Tom's train, o'er its track of rail. 
Went tiying, with its human load. 

A sound of softly-ringing bells — 
As though we heard it in a dream— 




138 



IDLE EHYMINGS. 



t jir" JBw ^^ ^1% j^^ir jMi^^%\^ JB^^^ Jlyj^v^ JilS^t\* Jly^* JBaI^ jS 




Thfm up the meadow's g'entle swells 
Was poured the whistle's angry scream. 

For twenty years we've watched the train, 
And heard the noisy engine roar— 

I hear it now, far down the lane. 
But never heard it so before! 

The air grows dark! 1 scarce can see 
Kush through the gloom the dusty car ; 

While, o'er it all, appears to nie 
A bright, but swiftly-falling, star. 

The cloud dispels— the shadows part, 
I hear the mighty engine's breath; 

But oh, it rings this aching heart. 
For now it sings a song of death, 

I see the bell-rope idly swing 
As Tom's train rushes swiftly past; 

I hear no more his greetings ring, 
For this sad run shall be his last. 

For him no more the noisy bell 
Adds to the rolling engine's dm; 

But weeping eyes this story tell: 
"Life's run is made — Tom's train is in ! ' 



J- 



\ 



IDLE RHYMINGS. JH'J 




t 



TO MY WIFE. 

The sun seems waning and pale, Lottie, 

The blue in the sky's growing dark. 
And soon, through the night's sable veil, Lottie, • 

Will glimmer the star's feeble spark; 
But the heart that is honest and true, Lottie, 

And the soul bathed in Heaven's pure light. 
May rejoice all the long day through, Lottie, 

And rival the stars of the night. 

Chorus — Oh, the beauty of earth fades away, Lottie, 
And the stars in the sky feebly shine, 
For a lovelier picture to-day, I^ottie, 
Is shone in a life siich as thine. 

Oh, the rose may bloom on the thorn, Lottie, 

The violet flush blue in the sun. 
And the lark sweetly carol at morn, Lottie, 

O'er the joys af a day just begun; 
But the petals must wither and fall, Lottie, 

And the violet's sweet blush fade away. 
And the lark will abandon his call, Lottie, 

In the shadows that blot out the day. 

Chorus — 

Thus Nature must wither and die, Lottie, 

But in life renewed ever springs. 
And all through the moments that fly, Lottie, 

The song of eternity rings; 
And though we may seem to grow old, Lottie, 

And the years seem swiftly to fly. 




We're approaching a mansion of gold, Lottie, 
Prepared by Our Father on High. 

Chorus— 

And there we may dwell through the years, Lottie. 

Nor dream of the world's weary care, 
For there's none of this world's griefs and fears, Lot- 
tie, 

In the home he has made over there; 
Oh, sweet be the joy of our rest, Lottie, 
Where the beauties of Heaven shall blend. 
As we dwell in that home of the blest, Lottie, 

With Jesus, our Savior and Friend. 

Chorus— 

GARFIELD MEMORIAL SERVICES. 

Hark! The bells are sadly tolling — 
Hear them tolling sa<l and slow! 

Hark! The muffled drums are rolling 
Hear their rolling, soft and low. 

See! A thousand flags are flying. 
On the breezes see them v^^ave! 

Hear, to-day, the Nation crying, 
'Round the noble Garfleld's grave! 




J- 



> 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 141 




t 



THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 

A dozen long, eventful years, have vanished in the 

past, 
Since, thou dear old homestead, I looked upon thee 

last ; 
Can I forget the pleasant scenes that my young mind 

impressed? 
Or how, when I was called to go, that mind was sore 

distressed V 
These fields were then a glorious green, and radiant 

all these nooks. 
This old house then was bright and new — but ah! 

how changed it looks! 
'Twas here I spsnt my childhood days, amid the fields 

and fiowers, 
Here oft I've seen the growing grain look fresh in 

summer showers; 
Here oft I've seen the early birds rise, warbling, to" 

ward the skies. 
And ofien tried, in boyish glee, to mock their melo- 
dies; 
Here, too, I drove the lazy cows, and heard the buzz- 
ing bees. 
And angled in yon running brook, and climbed the 

orchard trees; 
Here oft I've seen the sun at morn climb up the 

Eastern hill — 
Or seen, at noon, his shining face reflected in the rill 
That rushed, and leaped, and danced along, fresh 

from the purling spring — 





142 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



i^aa^nw^ami^maKim^ 




Ah me! How sad the memories the faded pictures 

bring! 
Oh, had these trees the power to tell of all the chang" 

ing years— 
Of winter winds, and summer suns, and human hopes 

and fears, 
I fain would sit me down to-day and hear the story 

told— 
For all about the place is changed, e'en I am growing 

old. 
Just where, beneath that willow's shade, the cricket's 

nightly creep. 
Wrapped in their narrow garb of earth my loving 

parents sleep; 

They are akme— amid these scenes whence beauty 
long has fled — 

The thriving farm of long ago is peopled with the 
dead. 

'Here ran the current of their lives" — a round of 
daily toil — 

Content while others sought for fame, to till their 
fertile soil; 

While I, a truant on the earth, was wandering far 

and wide- 
While traveling o'er the grassy plain, or up the moun- 
tain-side. 

How oft has come before my eyes, with vivid trac- 
ings drawn, 

The picture of the old home scene, with woodland, 
hill and lawn; 




J- 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 14H 




t 



How oft, when danger hovered near, my mind has 
here returned, 

And rested with the dear ones here, whose hearts for 
me have yearned; 

How often, when despair had seized upon my faint- 
ing heart. 

Would these sweet pictures comes to view, and bid 
my fears depart! 

The memory of the dear old home would give me 
strength anew, 

And make, when darkest clouds hung low, some ray 
of light shine through. 

WHAT THE BREEZES SING. 

Mother, what do the breezes say 
As over the meadow fields to-day 

I hear them sadly sighing ? 
Do they sing of a land of beauty rare, 
Where sweetest melody fills the air, 
As birds of richest plumage there 

With songs of praise are fiying? 

Or. do their plaintive voices tell 
Of a broken home where sorrow fell 

O'er the brightness of life's morning- 
Do they come from a place where willows weep 
O'er forms embraced in endless sleep- 
Do they Ijring, on the breath of their gentle sweep, 

A solemn note of warning ? 




144 



IDLE SHYMINGS. 




Do they sing of a home where Love's light sheds 
Its golden stream o'er youthful heads, 

And crowns yoimg lives with glory '? 
Or, do they sing of a hovel, poor, 
"With the hungry wolf at its squalid door — 
Of a ruined home, where joy no more 

Shall Ijrighten the mournful story. 

"The winds roll on, in their gentle strain, 
By sun-lit field and stormy plain — 

By the brook and the winding river; 
And ever they sing a medley song. 
For the world's great story of right and wrong 
In mournful cadence is borne along 

On their gentle breath forever." 

"But what is the saddest story told. 
This Springtime day, by the breezes cold 

That play around the shutters? 
What of the picture the South-wind sees — 
Save the singing birds and the humming bees, 
And the blossoms on the cherry trees. 

Where the robin gaily flutters ?" 

"The saddest story it tells, my child. 
As it floats along over wood and wild. 

Sadder than every other — 
Is that of a home where a Demon came 
And cast a cloud on an honored name, 
And lowly laid, 'neath a load of shame, 

The heart of a sainted mother. 

Bright was the life of the merry boy 
Who filled that mother's heart with joy , 




J- 



> 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 145 




t 



Ere he fell in the Demon's power; 
Now, over the mound where the mother lies, 
Movirnful and sad the South-wind sig'hs — 
And softly greets the Summer skies 

A wealth of shrub and flower. 

Yet, day by day, this Demon comes, 

With his blighting breath, to a thousand homes- 

And he leaves a trail of sorrow; 
Unchained, untrammeled, he roams to-day 
Into the fields where the young lambs play — 
He comes, he seizes, he bears them away. 

To an early grave to-morrow. 

That is the saddest tale they bring 
These breezes soft, on fairy wing, 

Down through the ages crying; 
Ah, well may men from the terror shrink 
And draw away from that fatal brink 
Prepared for them by this Demon, Brink, 

Whose zeal is never-dying! 

THE DEATH TRAP I 

On Witnessing an Execution. 

The morning sun with ghastly gleam 

Breaks from the eastern sky. 
And through the trees, in golden stream, 

His glimmering glances fly; 
Yet sadness comes, the merry morn 

Is tinged with gathering gloom — 




146 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 




vifiionKcnnKiCDiaKicaBiKieaBiKsag 





A harbinger of hope forlorn, 
A shade of coming doom. 

The robins sing as ne'er before 

The very winds seem glad^ 
Yet still there echoes, o'er and o'er, 

A measure sweetly sad ; 
Grim Justice now shall wield her power, 

The law, with mighty sway, 
Must kill, in manhood's early hour, . 

A fellow-man to-day. 

"What though hideous be his crime. 

And all his life be ill ? 
A blemish on the face of time — 

A fellow-creature still; 
Yet Justice moves a changeless course, 

A tirm, unbroken path. 
And sinners e'er must feel the force 

Of God's avenging wrath. 

Though sweetest tints of roseate hue 

May tinge the morning sky. 
And over diamond-sparkling dew 

The early moments fly ; 
Yet the same sun that floods with light 

The dew-drop's shining spark. 
Must fall before the coming night 

Clothed with the shadows dark. 

While we to Him our praises sing 
Who notes the sparrow's fall. 

We hear the noisy hammer ring 
Upon the scaffold tall; 



J- 



\ 



IDLE EHYMINGS. 147 




Though bright the day, and earth is fair 
With Spring's first bahny breath, 

We see, grim-rising over there, 
The gloomy trap of death. 

At last 'tis done— the life is gone, 

The mortal pulse is still'd, 
And Justice marches grandly on — 

The law has been fulfilled; 
Yet while we steel each bleeding heart. 

And stifle horror's cry. 
Anon on every side will start 

A sympathetic sigh. 

And loving mothers' prayers ascend 

^To Him who rules above, 
And Christian mothers' praises blend 

In heart-felt songs of love; 
Tor He who doeth all things well 

Can keep each darling boy. 
And, e'en while tolls the funeral bell. 

Can fill each life with joy. 

Now take the deadly trap away. 

Untie the horrid rope; 
For other, Ijetter scenes to-day 

AVe cast our horoscope; 
Yet, as we view the golden skies 

Beyond the setting sun. 
We say— though still with tearful eyes- 

Our Lord, Thy will be done! 



« 




148 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



msMuafsmumsmnmiMamemmfsmamiM 






OURS! 



On a surprise party to Rev. W. D. Cherington 
and loife. 

Hark! The vesper-bells are ringing-, 

Soft and sweet the 'witching strain, 
Fondest memories ever bringing. 

Falls about the sacred fane ; 
Yet the happy moments fleeting, 

Bear a richer, sweeter sound, 
As, to-day, our loved ones greeting, 

Friends and neighbors gather 'round. 

Tell us not, in mystic stories. 

Of a world in beauty dress'd, 
Neither paint the sun-set glories 

Sinking down the golden west; 
Out upon this worldly beauty 

Not to-day our fancies roam — 
We enjoy a grander duty, 

'Tis to welcome loved ones home. 

Softly through the evening shadow 

Comes a greeting from afar, 
Past a welth of beauteous meadow. 

Verdant hill, and shining star; 
Other hearts that know our loved ones 

Send ns words of cheer to-day, 
Yet other scenes will claim the right 

To tear our friends away. 

What, though to other fields they go, 




> 



> 



e 



IDLE EHYMINGS. 149 



To spread the Word of Light ? 
Within our hearts their images 

Are ever pure and bright ; 
And every eve, at vesper-bell, 

An earnest prayer we'll breathe. 
That God. with His rich, bounteous love, 

Their sunny heads will wreathe. 

Lives of beauty cannot perish, 

Day by day new joys unfold. 
And for friends we fondly cherish. 

Loyal hearts will ne'er grow cold; 
May the skies be blue aljove them. 

And their paths be strewn with flow'rs! 
For w t^ ne'er shall cease to love them — 

These young Christian friends are ours! 

Though the years are swiftly flying- 
Fast we glide along life's stream— 

And this summer day is d\ ing 
Like some pleasant, happy dream. 

In our heaits. nh, let us treasure 
All the joys that 'round us play. 

And, through life, retain the pleasure 
That prevades our hearts to-day. 

May the joy of Friendship's greeting 

Ever linger in each soul. 
Heaven's music e'er repeating 

As the moments onward roll; 
And, when life's frail cord shall sever, 

And our glad souls upward fly. 




150 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 






^♦■IB^*^^^?**®*^*^^*^*! 



May we meet, and dwell forever 
In that home beyond the sky! 

— .=00^ ^.o.. 

BLOOD STAINS! 




I've seen a sig:ht to-day, dear Marth, that sets my 
blood art am e, 

A sight that bring-s to manhood's cheek the Inirning 
blTish of shame; 

I've stood, this Sabbath morn, beside a peaceful cot- 
tage door, 

And looked, with startled eyes, to see dark blood- 
stains on the floor. 

I've stood within a humble cot, upon a green hill- 
side. 

And saw the sweetly-blooming trees, and meadows 
green and wide. 

But oh, through all these priceless gems, from Na- 
ture's bounteous store, 

I see, still glare before my eyes, the blood-marks on 
the floor. 

An air of peace hangs o'er the scene, and happy fan- 
cies play. 

In golden eddies, 'round the cot this pleasant summer 
day; 

But oh, how sad the horrid scene within its narrow 
door! 

There are signs of death on every side— there are 
blood-stains on the floor. 



J- 



i 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 



lol 



gs.-«a^biei!iBb*:ciggKiiaE9K:0acaK«anKxaEaK:en[gKiei!inKsn^Kica 

.jp'fl^-j^-wijj^^wiiij^":'* — — ■ ■ — ■ ■ ' — ^— — 






« 



Upon the hearth where yesterday romped little feet 

at play, 
A parent's life-blood trickles down in pnr])le stream 

to-day ; 
I see, where romped the infant feet, the liloody 

fountain pour. 
And a loving father's life goes out in blood-marks on 

the rtoor. 

Oh, blackest picture on life's page! The human heart 
must shrink. 

To feel, when in our quiet hoines we hover on death's 
brink; 

That, even in (air happiest hours, we tread the 
gloomy shore. 

Where murderous hands mav pour our lives in blood- 
stains (in the floor. 

Oh, let us on this horrid scene a hiding curtain draw, 

And strive to make our home-life safe within the 
1 jounds of law ; 

And ever strive to place Jibout each humble cottage 
door, 

A guard against th" hands that make these blood- 
marks on the floor! 

We'll pray, dear wife, to Ilim who holds the earth 

within his hand. 
To let His sweet, protecting love rest over all our 

land ; 
Yet there is one effective way our safety to restore — 
A few more l)roken necks will drive the blood-stains' 

from the floor. 




152 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 




THANKSGIVING! 

Give thanks — 
Now plenty crowns the festal board. 
And Peace, white-winged, rests on the bounteoug 
earth ; 
With sacred thought the honest mind is stored 
And praise to Him who gave these l)lessings birth. 

Give thanks- 
While, round, the happy children romp, 

And wake the echoes with their laughter loud; 
To-day be happy— let not pride nor pomp 

Restrain thy mingling with the happy crowd. 

Give thanks — 
While round the fleecy snow-flakes fall. 

Clothing the frozen earth in robes of white; 
From the dark storm-clouds, hanging like a pall, 

Fall the bright crystals, tinged with purest light. 

Give thanks— 
Though now the heart be tinged with sadness, 

All doubt and fear will surely pass away; 
Let us then, strive to fill our lives with gladness, 

By doing kindly acts from day to day. 




> 



IDLE RHYMINGS. loii 




ON THE DEATH OF A DEAR FRIEND. 



Lo! I hear a message falling. 
Hear it echo o'er and o'er, 

As of voices sweetly calling — 
Calling from a ditsant shore. 

Oft I hear that call repeating 
In the dark and silent night; 

'Tis the voice of Faith, entreating 
Some glad si >ul to take its flight — 

Take its flight away from sorrow 

That oppresses it today. 
To that home where, on to-morrow, 

It shall greet eternal day. 

Not in vain is all its pleadmg— 
Not in vain it calls us on; 

One more soul that call is heeding, 
And we mourn a sister gone. 

Gone across the mighty river, 

To inherit joys divine; 
There, with holy light, forever 

Will that gentle spirit shine. 

Though despondent, broken-hearted. 
We who linger on this side 

Hear the blessed word imparted: 
"Die as pure as Jennie died!" 



t 




154 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



iKsanii^DDi^anhi^anhi^anKsanKcaiahiMnKsa^R^n 




THE HOME AGAINST THE SALOON. 

There's a peace and a joy in the quiet night. 

And a health in the bracing air — 
And the stars are giving their feeble might 

To render the evening fair; 
But the stars are singing a mournful song, 
As they greet the silvery moon — 
And low and high, 
We hear the cry. 
Of "the Home against the Salonn." 

There's a patter of little infant feet, 

And a rush through the open door, 
And with joyous hearts the loved ones greet 

The father, home once more; 

Oh, fleeting pleasure! What heart can tell 

In that happy hour, how soon 

May fall the blow 

Which shall lay it low— 

The Home before the Saloon. 

The stars of evening again look down, 
And join in their mournful song ; 
And through the glimmering shadows brctwn 

Resounds the story of wrong; 
For the father's form we may see to-day 
Lain low, in a drunken swoon; 
While the story old 
Once more is told 
Of "the Home against the Saloon." 



> 



> 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 15r> 



There's a new-raade grave on yonder hill, 

Where the emerald verdnre creeps, 
And a youthful widow, while all is still. 

Bends over the mound and weeps; 
And her tender hands, with tltiwerets Vjright 
Here fasten the gay festoon — 
And in scalding tears 
We read her fears 
For the Home against the Saloon. 

And thus repeating the story old, 

The days go whirling by, 
And the tale of death is daily told 
In the widow's tear and sigh; 
Oh, that He who hearest the orphan's wail, 
And seest these tiowers strewn 
On the drimkard's grave. 
May come ti > save 
The Home against the Saloon! 

— .=<>.^^=o.. 

WHO! 

Who fills the widow's eyes with tears — 
Who wakes the trembling orphan's fears? 

AVho makes the noble fall? 
Who makes the dreamland monsters creep — 
Who ruins suffering manhood's sleep? 

King Alcohol. 

Who wakes the maniac's horrid spell. 
And makes the happy home a hell — 

Who spreads the gloomy pall 



t 




156 



IDLE FHYMINGS. 







Around the hearth where love should reign, 
And fills each heart with endless pain ? 
King Alcohol. 

Who takes the young and tender Ijoy — 
A father's pride, a mother's joy. 

And, with enchanting call, 
Lures him along the dangerous way — 
More dark, more sinful every day '? 

King Alcohol. 

Who, with his hot and blighting bre;ith. 
Spreads, far and near, a sea of death. 

And, in his horried thrall, 
Holds vigorous youth a willing slave. 
And gives to age a drunkard's grave? 

King Alcohol. 

Who dares to laugh at woman's sighs, 
And on the maniac's startling cries 

A reign of mirth install? 
Who, by his dark and subtle spell, 
Would drag the anj;els down to hell? 

King Alcohol. 

Who rages over all life's plain. 

And leaves his ghastly heaps of slain— 

And, dead to mercy's call. 
Seeks but for manhood's overthrow — 
Satan's best friend and Heaven's foe? 

King Alcohol. 




> 



\ 



IDLE EH r MINGS. 157 




THE SPAKROW. 

Pert and saucy — ever hopping, 
Ofttin)es on forbidden ground, 

With thy harsh song, never stopping, 
Waking horrid echoes 'round. 

Over house or orchard screeching, 

Dull and useless be thy lot; 
Naught of good thy life is teaching. 

Worm and insect fear thee not. 

Who shall give thee friendly greeting? 

Who shall plead thy hunil)le cause? 
Who shall hear thy voice, entreating 

Safety under human laws? 

Yet, whilst thou our feelings harrow. 
With thy harsh cry of alarm. 

One who notes the fallen sparrow 
Will protect thee from all harm. 

Though the pel»bles thickly shower 
'Round the tree which forms thy cage. 

Safely perched beyond our power. 
Thou canst laugh to see our rage. 



« 




]58 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 




A SUMMER REVERIE. 




Slowly now the evening sun 
Glides down the golden West; 

Soon will the summer day Ije done, 
And nature be at rest. 

Deep in the shadows of the grove. 

Beneath its branches wide. 
Where coos the plaintive turtle-dove. 

Where nimble squirrels hide. 

Where woodbine clambers up the oak, 
Where beauteous wild flowers grow. 

Where never has the axman's stroke, 
Dealt out the killing blow — 

Hither I came this summer eve. 

To while away an hour ; 
Here I'm enabled to perceive 

The Maker's mighty power. 

I pause within a shady dell. 
While birds sing in the trees. 

While the distant tinkling of a bell 
Blends with the hum of bees. 

There, in that silent, shady nook, 

A marble tablet stands — 
Near where the waters of a brook 

Rush o'er the shining sands. 

There some poor traveler on life's way 
Now sleeps the sleep profound. 



J- 



IDLE EH Y MINGS. 159 



t 



While ripijling waters near him play. 
And tlowers derk the jfround. 

What sweeter place than this to sleep 

In the long sleep of death ? 
Where snnuner breezes softly sweep, 

With flower-scented breath. 

It is snch glorious scenes as these 

Which point us to the skies ; 
These singing birds, these flowers and trees 

Bring thoughts of Paradise. 



"O"^ ^oO=, 



On the Death of A Little Friend. 



The bells will peal at christmas-tinie. 
But sad their tones will be; 

Each hollow note — each ringing chime. 
Will bring sad thoughts to me. 

I juiss the cry of boisterous mirth — 

The shout of youthful joy; 
I see consigned to mother-earth 

My friend, the happy boy. 

That friend is gonel Xo more I see 
Ilis face and manner bright; 

The pleasing thought abides with me: 
Plis heart was always right. 




160 IDLE BHYMIKGS. 






THE OLD B4CK-L0G IS Bl RMN(J STILL. 

On the old, battered hearth-stone the ashes are 

dark, 
And deaden 3d at times to a faint, gleaming spark; 
But when Love's gentle breathing once touch the 

dim coal. 
With new life and beauty the bright flame will roll- 
Around the old chimney the crickets still sing, 
And the fondest of liOve's sacred memories cling; 
Oft-times when with sadness the moments would 

would fill, 
The blaze from the back-log will cheer the heart 
still. 

The years are fast-fiying— the turbulent world 
Swift on life's eddying river is whirled; 
The light of the morn but illumines the way 
Where we march through the shadows that banish 

the day — 
Time flies, with its changes — the forests must die. 
And man fade awuy in the ages that fly; 
But the home that is governed by God's holy will 
E'er keeps the old back-log bright glimmering still. 

Far through the dim shadows the moments come 

back, 
And we travel again over life's beaten track; 
The bright scenes of childhood l)efore us unfold, 
On the shadows of age, like a halo of gold; 
The old gaping fire-place an air castle seems, 
And we fill it again with our juvenile schemes— 





IDLE UHYMlNiiS. J(>1 




t 



Oh, the joys of our childhood, a^e never can kill. 
For the old-fashioned l)a('k-log: is bright blazing 
still. 

Though wealth may erect its tine palace and hall, 
Age crumbles the granite— the structure will fall; 
But the palace of L<>vp, firm built in each heart, 
Laughs at time and outshines nil the beauties of art; 
Age cannot deface the bright sand-polished floor 
That holds a Arm phice in our hearts evermore — 
For the memories of home fondest fancies instill^ 
And with light from the back-log our loving 
hearts till. 

The voices of turtle-doves, plighting their vows. 
The bell, which announces the home-coming cows, 
The lamb's gentle l)leating — the call of the hen- 
All these home-like noises come to us again; 
The laughter of children, the lullaby song. 
Back through the past moments come floating along; 
All is sunlight and beauty— no vision of ill, 
For the blaze from the l)ack-log lights up the heart 
still. 

The old logs are crumbling slowly away, 
As Time breathes upon them the breath of decay; 
The walks are grass-covered, the fences are down, 
The fields and the bushes look lonely and brown; 
The laughter of children, that heart pleasing sound, 
Lies silent and dead in that grass-covered mound ; 
But amid all this sadness we bow to His will, 
Who keeps the old back-log bright glimmering' 
still. 




162 



IDLE BHrMI^GS. 



|BiasKianKsnpK,«anKsanKMOKjipnft.^QnKr^ 



Though our lives be beset bv trial and care, 
And the heart often sink in the wave of df^spair. 
Like the Hanie of the back-log which gleamed in the 

past, 
The light of God's love on our pathway is cast; 
And sweetly it leads us along the dark way. 
Onward and upward, to Infinite Day — 
And all through the ages, each bright spot will fill 
With the light which the liack-log is sending forth 
still. 

THE CURSE OF RUM. 

Aronnd another home is cast 
A sea of gloom— a terror vast. 
And loving neighbors stand aghast. 

With sorrow dumb; 
Another happy home, at last. 

Is robbed by rum. 

What though a widow's heart shall break, 
And orphan's cries the echoes wake? 
And soimds of human suffering make 

Our heart-strings numb; 
Our best and happiest homes must take 

The curse of rum. 

What though the Demon claims his slave, 
And l)uries him 'neath sorrow's wave — 
And from the unseen power who gave, 

The summons come? 
That hmely, horrid, sickening grave 

Was filled bv rum. 




> 



> 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 



16S 




Those fjriives are scattered far and wide, 
They dot the hills on every side — 
And many a lovinj? mother's pride 

Is stricken dumb: 
For hai)i)y homes must still abide 

The curse of rum. 

About the place where beauty fell 
Into earth's da'k and narrow cell, 
Into a yawning drunkard's hell — 

With senses numl) — 
To-day we stand, and sadly tell 

The tale of rum. 

Oh, freemen, in your wondrous might, 
As God, your Father, gives you light, 
Arise! And battle for the right 

Till victory come. 
To drive away this horrid blight— 

This curse of rum. 



« 





164 



IDLE RHYMIKGS. 



ismnmsmnmemwxfsmnmimnmemnmKmn^KiKi^^ 






On a tioldeii Wedding-. 

Back throuji:h the darkening mazes of the past. 

Fondly, to-night, imagination strolls, 
To where the light of love its first rays cast. 

With glad effect, on these two human souls. 

For fifty years their lamp of love has burned — 
For fifty years, with never-varying fiame; 

Each time .the "anniversary" returned 
To find the love in these two hearts the same. 

A common life-time o'er life's troubled way, 
A life-time, with its mingled joy and pain; 

The scores of friends w^ho gather 'round to-day 
Prove that the years have not been spent in vain. 

The frosts of age, thick settling on their heads, 
Bear witness that our friends are growing old; 

Let us to-night conceal the silver threads, 
By hiding them beneath a crown of gold. 




> 



\ 



IDLE RHYMIXGS. 



IGL 




t 



Fallen! 

Who shall hear my wail of grief— 
"Who can ^ive iny heart relief V 
Who that hears my helpless cry, 
Reaching upward to the sky- 
Kindly word will speak to me, 
Bid my troubled heart be free? 

Ah, there's naught can peace restore. 

Till I reach the other shore. 

Once to me that blessed word 
"Home"— the sweetest ever heard— 
Brought the purest thoughts of love 
From the sacred realms above ; 
But the hollow echo, now. 
Stamps with grief my aching brow ; 

I shall know its joy no more 

Till I reach the other shore. 

I could once with rapture fold 
Little head of shining gold 
To my happy heart, and see 
Blue eyes filled with love for me, 
And enjoy the priceless charms 
Of two tiny, loving arms. 

All these thoughts, from mem'ry's store, 

Point me to the other shore. 

Happy home, and husband true. 
Peace and comfort once I knew ; 
Loving friends, and honored name. 
Thoughtlessly I put to shame; 




166 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 




Yet, while I miist still repine. 
O'er a thoughtless act of mine, 

Angels open mercy's dooi*, 

Over on the other shore. 

There, where Heavenly l)eauty blends, 
I may still find home and friends; 
There the fallen soul that grieves 
Crown of peace and joy receives, 
And Divine Love will impart 
Comfort to a broken heart — 
I may rest, and weep no more, 
Over on that golden shore. 



The Crown of Autiinin. 



Sweet the Autumn glory falls 

Over field, and bush, and tree, 
While each gentle zephyr calls 
In the softest tones to me : 
"Come to the groves. 
Where the squirrel roves. 
On the barren branches, wild and free." 

Drear the calling of the crow, 
As he cleaves the bracing air ; 

While he views the wood below 
As he feared to enter there— 
"Caw ! Caw !" he shouts, 




^ 



> 



IDLE BlIVMIXas. 

And his comrades routs, 
With his warning note of wild despair. 

Sweet the singing of the bird, 

As it softly lloats along— 
In a joyful medley heard. 
Pouring forth a heart of song : 
"Come, come away, 
To the wood, to-day, 
* Where stores of sweetest mem'ries throng." 

Drear the sounding of the gun, 

As its cruel work goes on; 
Counting, at the set of sun. 
Some of God's poor creatures gone: 
"Death! Death!" it rings. 
And a sadness brings 
To the golden eve, from the rosy dawn. 

Yet above these sights and sounds- 
Golden leaves and cruel gun, 
Singing birds and crying hounds, 
Peaceful shines the setting sun- 
Over all. 
Its glories fall 
Like the glow of Heaven won. 

Thus the year is growing old — 

Thus the sun's bright, gleaming rays, 
Shed a radiant crown of gold 
Over all its closing days — 
And it sinks to rest 
With the saved and blest ' 
Who sing Jehovah's love and praise. 



« 




168 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 



!h-insK,capKsa!aKxaeaK«aEgHtf«apKsa;gKmnKfl 



To Harry, Sleeping'. 

Sleep. Harry, sleep I 

In slumber deep, 
As slow the moments onwai'd creep. 
And may the lig-ht of Heaven shed 
Its l)lessings round thy sunny head; 

Sleep, Harry, sleep. 

Dream, Harrj^, dream ! 

With beauty's beam 
May all your childish visions teem; 
And may your journey o'er life's way 
Be free from sorrow as to-day; 

Dream, Harry, dream. 

Rest, Harry, rest ! 

Thy slumber blest, 
Thy brow by cooling- breeze caressed; 
May he who watches from nl)Ove 
Surround thee with his Ixnmteous love; 

Eest, Harry, rest! 




-^ 



> 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 169 




t 



THE HORRORS OF DRINK. 



Slowly fall the shades of evening, swiftly flies tlie 

fading day I 
Over many a towering steeple fitful shadows dance 

and play : 
Toilers homewaixl wend their journey — eager seek 

their needed rest, 
While the golden sun of Autumn sinks to slumber in 

the West. 
Stands a cottage in the gloaming— softly treading to 

and fro 
Are the care-worn, anxious inmates, as they whisper, 

soft and low ; 
There's a white face on tlie pillow, there's a weak 

heart beating fast ; 
Sit the mourners, sadly waiting, till that sorrowing 

life is past. 
There's a step without the doorway — there's a tum- 
bling, reeling tread. 
Steps of one who hath no sorrow for the living or 

the dead. 
Quickly turns the dying mother, all too well that 

step she knows, 
Comes her breathing hot and quickly, on her cheek 

the fever glows ; 
Sounds the sacred name of "Mother," but from lips 

that crime hath stained. 
Rut the poor heart now is broken, which that sound 

so often pained. 




170 IDLE BHYMINGS. 



iJSimamsieamiMaafmxn^fmmaaj^sn^fiMamim^^ 




Slowly raise the drooping eye-lids, long she looks with 

■ steadfast gaze, 
On this wreck of all that's human, over which the 

dim light plays. 
One sad shriek the echoes waken, and tiie burdened 

life hath rted, 
"lis the drunken son's last visit— now he sees the 

mother dead ; 
For, with anguish partly sobered, now he looks with 

vacant stare — 
Rings a sound of deadly pistol on the chilly evening 

air ; 
Sinks he down before her bedside, soon departs his 

last faint breath. 
And the murderer and murdered side by side repose 

in death. 
While the father grieves, heart-broken, o'er the rum 

drink hath made. 
While he kissed the thin lips softly— lips that often 

sadly prayed. 
From his heart there swelled deep curses of the ciim- 

inals and crime 
That had rubbed him of his loved ones in the fullness 

of their prime. 
Softly then his neighbors tell liim that men have a 

right to sell 
Drink that sends the souls of thousands daily (m the 

road to Hell ; 
While he gazes on his dead ones, stark and stiff be- 
fore his eyes, 
From his lips a wail of sorrow raises upward to the 

sk'es. 




^ 



> 



IDLE EHYMINCrS. 171 



afiiijii7nK«i!iiah;«iiBK:«aiaK^anh:sa(gK«acgKiiaaK9aE9KiianKca 



« 



Vows he now, amid his sorrow^, that the time shall 

never come, 
When, by voice of his, a party shall protect the sale 

of rum ; 
For he knows uf death that follows — he knows of 

snares that dwell 
By the wayside of the youthful, who are caught in 

mystic spell. 
As the evening shadows thicken, swiftly merging 

into night. 
Far aliove he hears sweet voices crying: "Battle for 

the Right ! 
Never give tlie struggle over till the Demon has been 

slriin — 
And no more a son's debauchery shall cause a mother 

pain." 
;Now he bears his load of sorrow slowly onward, day 

by day — 
Sorrow Time can never weaken— neither Joy can 

drive away. 
One more heart is torn asunder— one more soul is 

clothed in gloom, 
One more life would gladly hasten to the shadow of 

the tomb. 
.Shall this picture be repeated, every day and every 

hour y 
And shall crime go stalking onward, and defy all 

earthly pow'rV 
Oh my comrades, let us rally^let us strike the mon- 
ster down ! 
We may win a Father's blessing, we may wear a gol-l 

den crown. 




172 IDLE BHYMINGS. 




We may sing our glad hozanna, at the end of life's 

short span, 
Of "(rlory to the (xod of Hosts," and "Peace, Good 

Will, to Man!" 

THANKSGIVING! 




Dear wife come to the window and let us look again 

Upon the distant pine-clad hill^, far down the grassy 
plain ; 

I love to see the nodding pines, the hickory's golden 
leaves. 

And on the corn-field's rugged face, the stores of yel- 
low sheaves; 

I love to look upon the trees, where richest glories 
play, 

And shed new beauties on the farm on this Thanks- 
giving Day. 

How oft, dear wife, we've wandered out, through 
many a woodland green. 

While, in the buoyaat hope of youth, our love-life 
was serene! 

Those days come floating l)ack to me. and like some 
magic spell, 

From out the old brown church I hear a joyous mar- 
riage l)ell. 

And from that blessed hour, dear wife — that altar far 
away, 

T see Love's hand point trustfully to this Thanksgiv- 
ing Day. 



> 



\ 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 173 




t 



In the long path of toil and care which you and I have 
trod, 

We may. oft-times, have fallen short the glory of our 
God; 

But in temptation's trying hour, which tests the 
Christian's heart. 

We've ever felt a willingness to try to do our part— 

And when I think from trusting souls lie ne'er will 
turn away, 

I feel new cause to praise Ilis name on this Thanks- 
giving Day. 

We've raised our little trusting flock beneath His 
loving eye, 

And planted in their sinless minds ambitions pure 
and high; 

We've scattered flowers along life's way, but here and 
there between 

The petals, blooming fresh and fair, a ruthless thorn 
was seen ; 

Yet, looking back along life's stream, the fondest fan- 
cies play 

Around our home, and cheer my heart on this 
Thanksgiving Day. 

To-day, of all the happy year, His blessings, full and 

free. 
Seem pouring out, in golden stores, dear wife, for 

you and me; 
The Autum air seems full of joy, and, on the distant 

hill. 
The lowing cows with home-like sounds the happy 




174 



IDLE RHYMFSGS. 




moments fill ; 

But, sweeter than the joys of earth, from Heaven's 
bright array, 

Pour out the richest joys for us, on this Thanksgiv- 
ing Day. 

Oh, let us lift our hearts to Him M'ho knows our ev- 
ery care, 

Who builds, for all His trusting ones, a palace over 
there. 

And let us look, with trusting eyes, toward that 
golden shore 

Where souls dwell in eternal joys— but know life's 
cares no more ; 

And let us ever live, dear wife, with hearts as light 
and gay 

As on the old, familiar farm, on this Thanksgiving 
Day. 

THE DEADLY MINE. 




Soft the morning light is falling. 

On the walls so dark and grim. 
Merrily a voice is calling. 

Calling through the shadows dim 
'Tis the miner's happy greeting. 

And his heart is light and gay. 
As. his sturdy comrades meeting, 

He begins the Aveary day. 

Little thinking — little heeding 
How the snares are lurking there. 



> 



> 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 175 



t 



>Soon his form is fast receding 
Down the dark and grimy stair ; 

And, with ready step, and fearless, 
He advances through the gloom, 

To the shadows, cold and cheerless, 
Of his damp and lonely room. 

Soon his pick is stoutly swinging 

On the black and shining wall. 
And the l)h)ws are loudly ringing 

As the ebon diamonds fall ; 
And his heart is warmly burning. 

And his soul is filled with love. 
While he thinks, with tender yearning, 

Of his loved ones up above. 

Hark! There comes a horrid rumbling- 
Hear! Is that a human groan ? 

Is the great roof toppling, crumbling. 
Is he dying there alone? 

Ah, the arm is stilFd forever. 
And the pick is thrown aside. 

While Death's dark and gloomy river 
Bears another on its tide. 

All unheeded— all unwarning. 

Death is lurking by the way, 
And the brightest, happiest morning. 

May bespeak the gloomiest day ; 
But to him that heeds the calling 

Of the blessed Friend Divine, 
Radiant light is ever falling 

In the dark and gloomy mine. 




176 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 




THE RED-BIRD. 



In the early light of the morning gray, 
Gaily perched on the topmost bough. 

The Red-Bird whistles his merry lay — 
Bright and cheerful I hear it now : 

"G-o-o-d cheer! G-o-o-d ch-e-e-r!" 
Rings his welcome, sweet and clear. 

His heart is glad, for the sun is warm, 
And he dreads no longer the ice and snow— 

For he drowns all thoughts of the freezing storm. 
As softly his liquid warblings flow: 

"To-wh-e-e-t, To-wh-e-e-t!" 
His merry song falls, soft and sweet. 

He has dived in the face of the roaring blast 
"When strong men shrink from the frosty air; 

Yet he thinks no more of the dangers past, 
As we hear him softly calling there : 

"To-wh-e-e-t, chee, chee, 
Let all the world be gay like me!" 

He has nestled oft 'mid beauteous flowers. 
And basked in the balmy breath of Spring; 

He has drunk at the fountains of Summer showers, 
And he thinks of these as we hear him sing: 

"Cheer, cheer, cheer, cheer, cheer !" 
For his heart is glad and he feels no fear. 

Ne'er blast of Winter nor Summer's rain 

Can mar the joy of liis happy song. 
And care may assail that heart in vain— 



m^i^ 



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J- 



i 



IDLE RHYMINGS. 

It is full of love, and it sings along: 

"Cirood, good, good ch-e-e-r!" 
Through Summer bright, or Winter drear. 

Oh, that every heart might feel as warm. 
And through earth's trials sing as gay- 
Alike in the sunshine and the storm, 
Its cheering song of the Perfect Day : 

"Draw near! Draw n.e-a-r!" 
For tlie love and glory of God are herel" 

— ..<=.^^.o.. — 
LINES 

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. V. FLORENCE CRX'MIT. 



Is that the rustling of a fairy wing, 
Floating downward from the wintry sky — 

Is that an anthem which the angels sing, 
Echoing far and high ? 

And that sweet vision — can it be a dream — 
Those gloomy clouds, dispelled by radiant light 

Which, through the clefts, in many a golden 
stream. 
Is shining pure and bright y 

Between the drifting clouds, a mother's hand — 
That sainted hand, so fraught with deeds of 
love. 

Beckons the daughter toward a better land— 
A realm of joy, above. 



« 




178 



BBBUUUU 

IDLE BHYMINGS. 






While, through our tears, we take our lust fare- 
well. 

And lay our Flora's form beneath the sod. 
In faith, and trust, we hear the Heavens tell 

The glories of our God. 

Yet still the pangs of anguish shall not cease. 
Nor joy be found in all the earth below ; 

In vain is spread the spotless garl) of peace. 
In softly falling snow. 

We miss the sparkling eye. the merry voice, 
And strive to think that, in the far away. 

That life through countless ages shall rejoice 
The bliss of Perfect Day. 

Above the gloom of earth, how clear the sky — 
How sweet that anthem swells upon the air! 

It marks the hour when Jesus passeth by — 
We read His glory there. 

There, in that land of rest, the mother's arms 
The beauteous daughter do at last enfold; 

Where music vibrates, with angelic charms. 
From glittering harps of gold. 

And, as their spirits come, with thoughts of love 
May our poor hearts so heed the precious call^ 

That we shall dwell, at last, in realms above, 
A glorious family, all. , 



> 



\ 



IDLE RHY MINGS. 179 




t 



LINES 

ON A PKOPOSITION TO REMOTE THE REMAINS OF A 

DEAD CHILD FROM A BEAUTIFUL 

CEMETERY PLOT. 

"Let no man deceive you with vain words ; for be- 
cause of these things cometh the wrath of God upon 
the children of disobedience." — Eph. v-e. 

What! Desecrate that tiny grave? 

Disturb the peaceful rest 
Of that dear one, whom Heaven gave 

To make our pathway blest? 
Ah, hard indeed must be the heart, 

And liarder still the mind. 
Which could such horrid thought impart 

To sorrowing humankind. 

What! Desecrate that little grave? 

Tear up with ruthless hand. 
That form, as though a cowering slave 

To wealth's insane demand? 
Oh, palsied be the cruel arm — 

If such there might be found — 
That dares to touch, with thought of harm, 

That peaceful little mound! 

Tear up the little, quiet form, 

Where it has lain so long 
Beneath the sunshine and the storm ? 

What heart could do such wrong? 




180 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



wismuaKmftmh:mmfimn^h:maafimaafimn'^^ 




Consent in other, rougher place 

That sainted form to thrust ? 
Xever, while lives a Christian grace — 

Never! While God is just! 

Around that grave, let loving care 

Proclaim the sacred spot ; 
Our brightest hope lies buried there, 

Thou shalt profane it not! 
Our heart-strings twine about the sod 

Wherein our darling sleeps, 
And never-dying faith in God 

The sacred memory keeps. 

Sleep, softly sleep, thou darling one. 

Nor fear an earthly ill ; 
For winter's storm, and summer's sun, 

Wl^l find thee slumbering still; 
And when the pale moon's shimmering light 

On thy green mound is shed. 
Safely, throughout the silent night. 

Shall rest our sainted dead. 



J- 



\ 



IDLE BUY MINGS. 



181 




THE MARTIN'S SONG! 



« 



Away, Hway, on the balmy breeze, 

VVith tireless wings I fly — 
Over the green earth, over the trees, 
Over the house-tops high ; 
And to and fro 
As I swiftly go. 
You may hear my merry cry. 

Now with playmates, in concert loud, 

I twitter upon the eave, 
Now through the mist of a gathering cloud 
With tireless wings I cleave — 
And not a care 
In the earth or the air. 
Can my merry spirit grieve. 

Now skimming the hat of a merry boy. 

Now sailing the water's brim, 
Now telling the tale of my boisterous joy 
To the evening shadows dim- 
Away, away. 
On pinion gay, 
While singing my matin-hymn. 

My happy secret you ask of me, 

Why my heart is ever light — 
Why my song is ringing, so full and free. 
From morn till the shades of nighty 
'Tis the sacred love 
Of our God above 
Which keeps my heart so bright. 




182 



IDLE RHYMIJS'GS. 




The lifH that idles away the days 

For our free enjoyment given. 
Which echoes not with the love and praise 
iH onr father who dwells in Heaven. 
Is as driftwofid cast 
On an ocean vast, 
By a cruel tempest driven. 

Then away, away, with me to-day- 
While warm is the Summer air, 
While the sunbeams' golden glances play 
Through the ap])le-blossoms fair- 
In all we do, 
The long day through, 
God's boundless love declare. 

LINES 

ON THE DEATH OF MISS MAGGIE KNOX. 




"Flitting away!" Like a fast-flying dream, 
The souls that are floating on life's broad stream 
"Which, fed by the tear-drops of sorrowing friends. 
In dark, gloomy billows, forever descends; 

Even we, as we weep on its sad shores to-day, 

Are "flitting, flitting away." 

"Flitting away !" The dark stream rolls on. 

And we know that our Maggie's bright spirit is gone ! 

Yet, over the shadow and gloom of the grave, 



J- 



> 




The sunlight is gilding the dark rolling wave, 

And we know tliat her soul is rejoicing to-day, 
While "flitting, flitting away." 

"Flitting away !" How swiftly they fly. 

As the souls, one by one, go hurrying by! 

A faint, passing vision— we see them no more. 

They are fast flying on toward that beautiful shore- 
To that land where Divine Love aroimd them 

shall play. 
They are "flitting, flitting away." 

"Flitting away !" 'Tis over— 'tis past. 
And the voice of our Maggie is silent at last; 
Yet in visions we see a bright mansion above. 
And hear her voice whisper its tidings of love ; 

And onward, to join in that glittering array. 

We are "flitting, flitting away." 

"Flitting away !" From the Spring's early flowers, 
Away from the love of these poor hearts of ours; 
Away, to the angelic home of the blest — 
That home where glad souls are forever at rest; 

To the love and the glory of Infinite Day,' 

She is "flitting, flitting away." 



« 




184 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



^sJS^W''^W^^^'^^W''^^^l'^W^P^^^^S^^M3^^3^^^^^^ 



A SILENT SKRMON. 

A little <-MM falling asleep in ch'H:)r:h, his father, who 

sawj in the ehoir, placed him beside the altar 

7iihere he slept during the sermon. 

Firm fell the sound 

Of text profound — 
The Parson, ably preaching, 

Of hope that springs 

From smallest things 
Through Jesus' love, was teaching. 

"lie noteth all— 

The si'arrow's fall, 
The Christian's passing sorrow. 

He drives away 

Our grief to-day, 
He brings us joy to-morrow." 

How the frail threads 

Upon our heads 
Our Heavenly Father numbers, 

How His love plays 

Above our days. 
And guards our nightly slumbers. 

The great truths fell 

Like magic spell. 
Anon the grand old story 

Came floating through 

The aisle and pew. 
Filled with Ills love and glory. 




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"■■'ii' UBI 



IDLE EH Y MINGS. 



185 



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A vision bright ■ 

Before our sight 
Came swiftly, sweetly creeping — 

For there beside 

The altar wide 
A beauteous child lay sleeping. 

Sweet, Heavenly grace, 

That up-turned face 
In dimpled charms betraying ! 

To rest as sweet 

At Jesus' feet, 
Were worth a life of praying. 

The sermon closed, 

The deacons dozed, 
And while the'choir were singing. 

The Parson's thought. 

In fine words wrought, 
Through aisle and pew kept ringing. 

But sweeter than 

The words of man. 
Of Heaven's glory teaching, 

(,'ame, strong and deep. 

From that sweet sleep, 
A wealth of silent preaching. 

A new joy, shed 
On that pure head, 
Lights up from pew to steeple ; 




""-"■ ' mi»». '!■■« = 



186 



IDLE EHYMFNGS. 




While, sweet and clear, 
A voice we hear : 

"Of such are Heaven's people- 
Lift up each voice, 
Let hearts rejoice ! 

Repeat the old, old story ; 
That cherub's looks 
Than gilded books 

Tell more about God's glory. 

A LITTLE MAN. 



I met him on the wintry street, 
Whence stronger soiils had fled — 

Tattered, the boots upon his feet, 
The hat upon his head. 

A piteous vision to behold, 

There in the winter's storm. 
Yet. though the outward form was cold, 

The heart was brave and warm. 

The little arms were brave and strong, 

And, o'er the icy road 
In cheerfulness they bore along 

A smaller comrade's load. 

"Kwas too heavy for the boy," 

The little hero cried — 
"It 'wakes in me an inward joy 

To bring it by his side," 




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> 



IDLE EHYMINGS. 1^7 





"I ever love to lend a hand, 

To help a needy friend, 
And 'neath a weighty load to stand. 

Where vi^eaker backs must hend." 

"They say they learn at Sunday School 

What Christian life should be- 
But I've been taught the Golden Rule, 
And that's enough for rae." 

Brave little man ! That noble thought 

A lesson sweet imparts— 
The same the blessed Savior brought 

To gladden human hearts. 

A thousand sermons could not teach 

A grander, nobler aim — 
Ambition's fires could never reach 

A brighter, sweeter flame. 

To such unselfish acts as these 
Our noblest thoughts are given. 

And, e'en on this cold, wintry breeze, 
Come sweetest songs of Heaven. 

A SUMMER FANCY. 

I saw, beside a cottage door, 

A little child at play. 
With laughing eyes, and sunny curls, 

As radiant as the day ; 



i 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 



1&8 






iKeanKTsaoKjeaBHiiieapRirjEanKisapKci] 







I saw him chase, in childish glee, 

A golden butter-tly, 
Which oft, with swift and airy wings, 

Went gaily fluttering by. 

'Tis said events of passing years 

Will cast their shades before; 
That we, from present fleeting signs, 

May read the future's store; 
Thus, as the sorrow-freighted years 

Go swiftly rushing by. 
Mankind will never cease to chase 

The golden butterfly. 

I envied all the precious joys 

Of that young, careless heart. 
Nor dreamed among earth's sorrowing ones 

It e'er could have a part; 
That, when life's day is fading out. 

And evening draweth nigh. 
Decrepit age shall mourn the youth 

That chased the butteifly. 

Through all the changeful scenes of earth 

The thought shall lead us on. 
And through the gloom of failing years. 

We seek a brighter dawn ; 
The fainting heart still hopeful scans 

The earth, and sea, and sky. 
And seeks in second-youth to trace 

The golden butter-fly. 

And when on earth these feet are still — 
AVhen time shall be no more — 




>V 



IDLE RHY MINGS. 189 



ifsaamsmm 







« 



They'll go to seek eternal flowers, 

Upon thrtt happy shore 
Where, 'mid the crowns and harps of gold, 

The joyous years roll by. 
And all forget, in sweeter scenes. 

The golden butter-fly 

THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. 

Grim witness of the flying years, 

What saddened thoughts arise, 
When first your whitened thread appears 

Before my startled eyes ! 
It speaks of youth which cannot last, 

It tells of gathering age — 
While future hopes, and mem'ries past. 

My varied thoughts engage. 

Like as a truth which fadeth not 

Before a mocking stain. 
Though art may hide your silver spot. 

It shineth forth again ; 
That slender thread of silver gray. 

In language pure and bold. 
Tells to the busy world to-day 

That I am growing old. 

It bids me heed the flying hours 

That o'er my pathway roll. 
And from decaying earthly powers 

Lift up a perfect soul ; 




1!)() 



IDLE RHYMIKGS. 



iah;sngKsaaK.«nnK«aah-iig!K9K«i9i;afiii>i!iraK«oiah>si!iBfi9nnK«n'i 




It bids me — though the tone is strange— 

So true, so faithful, be, 
That e'en in death will make m^ change 

A glorious victory. 

When 'neath the cloud of age this head 

Bends feebly down at last. 
Then will this slender, snowy thread, 

A silver lining cast ; 
And when beyond life's stormy sea 

Infinite joys unfold, 
Then will these silver tokens be 

Transformed in lines of gold. 

Oh, peaceful Age ! Oh, joyous night 
That tells of day well spent I 

And through the last hours' rapid flight 
Reveals a sweet content ; 

A peace that looks beyond the grave- 
Beyond earth's setting sun. 

And, in Jehovah's power to save. 
Proclaims the victory won. 



—^- — ^^ — r~ 



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!K«iaaF^.«aoFi;:£rrcgK;«agK.«(a.iah.-«i7[gK«riah:«ni.E9h::£<izaK:«nnrt;«i]l 



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TO OUR DEAD HEROES. 



Hark ! A solemn sound is rioating through the valleys 

of the North — 
Midst a wealth of waving banners, in the sunlight 

bursting forth — 
Like a low, sad dirge of music, like a sound of muffled 

drums. 
Down the hillsides, uj) the valleys, on the summer 

breeze it comes ; 
Sadly sweet the solemn measures, as they slowly di^ 

away. 
For they tell of brave men weeping over comrades' 

graves to-day. 

'Tis the sound which ofttimes echoed from the san- 
guinary fight — 

'Twas heard on Chickamauga's field, and Lookout's 
dizzy hight, 

'Twas heard in Vicksburg's trenches, inShiloh's dark 
ravines. 

It sang asolelun requiem o'er countless tragic scenes; 

Yet with saddened hearts we hear the mutlled music 
pifiy, 

As we strew, with gems of beauty, our comrades' 
graves to-day. 

'Tis the sound which, in the wilderness, rolled down 

the smoky sky. 
When brave men struggled, 'midst the fire, to con- 

(juer or to die, 




192 



IDLE BHYMIKGS. 



iR^as 







And up the Shenandoah, when the death-shots fell 

like hail, 
The rolling drum and shrieking fife were heard along 

the vale ; 
And many were the brave and true who fell along 

the way, 
Whose brave deeds we commemorate in fioral wreaths 

to-day. 

We've heard it on the weary march, we've heard it in 

our dreams. 
We've heard it on the beetling hills, and by the bab" 

bling streams ; 
We've heard it where the prison pens were knocking 

at Death's door — 
We've heard it where the heaving sea beats on the 

Southern shore ; 
We've heard it where the warm South-wind toys with 

the crystal spray — 
Jjut never!^ heard it half so sad, so mournful as 

to-day. 

'Twas heard where stately Southern oaks concealed 

the wary line — 
'Twas heard above the lonely grave beneath the 

Southern pine ; 
And as its sad notes Northward rolled, the dreadful 

tidings fell 
As though each loving, loyal heart, had heard its 

funeral knell. 
Its mournful notes twine 'round our hearts, we may 

not drive away 
The strange sad recollections of Decoration Day. 



> 



V 



IDLE h'llYMIXilS. V.>:> 



IKCB 



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Again a floral trilmte lay upon each silent grave, 
And ever liallowed be the spot where sleep our fallen 

brave! 
Their lives gone out in noble deeds, their hearts to 

country tiue, 
They slumber in a hero's sleep, those gallant "lioys in 

Blue." 
Again bright wreaths of evergreens and sprays of 

laurel lay- 
Build them a monument of llowers ! 'Tis Decoration 

Dny! 

Long live these sacred memories— as long as time 

shall last. 
And ever 'round the soldier's grave a glorious halo 

cast ! 
And though the storms may roughly beat around the 

sacred spot, 
lis ties still closely bind our hearts— its glory fadeth 

not; 
And, through the intervening years, may fondest 

memories play 
Around the gallant soldier's grave — unto the Perfect 

Day. 

And when, beyond the shores of time shall sound the 

"reveille," 
When the angel hosts shall gather 'round in all their 

purity. 
May these brave ones who sleep to-day within these 

earthly bowers. 
Receive, from angel hands, bright crowns of Heaven's 




»»^»»1»^— g——IJ-»««».l™l ■—-■.—■■— I— ■—— 



194 IDLE BHYMIMGS. 



^i^;^^^M^s^iSss^si^sisdJS^as^ss^ 




eternal flowers. 
And may we entertain for them as sacre.d thoughts^ 

alway, 
As fill our hearts, and shape our deeds, on Decoration 

Day! 

GOING OUT OF THE MINE! 



Go, lay my tools away, boys, this hand is failing fast. 

My breath comes thick and slowly, as each would be 
the last — 

The "air" seems bad and stifling, and, in my lonely 
room, 

I see the "fire" which gives to me foreshadowings of 
doom. 

My old lamp burns but dimly, with dull and flicker- 
ing ray— 

My time is up, I must go out— go lay my tools away. 

There's many a lonely "entry" has heard the merry 

song 
Of my good pick, swift delving, with steady blows 

and strong, 
As through the ebon archway I moved with stubborn 

pace, 
And, tearing out the shining coal, left but an empty 

trace. 



s-^^ 




BZECn 



IDLE BHYMIXGS. 195 




t 



My heart still loves to hover by the mine-lamp's fee- 
ble jay, 

But the strong arm falters now, boys, go put the 
tools away. 

I've worked for many a weary year, where reigns 
eternal night. 

Yet through the darkest, gloomiest hour, my heart 
was ever light 

For there is One whose eye can pierce earth's gloom- 
iest recess, 

And, in the deepest, darkest mine, can come with 
pow'r to bless; 

Now I am going out, boys, into the light of day— 

I hear the cage descending now, go put my tools away. 

This brave old arm has stood the test in many a try- 
ing hour. 

And, though ofttimes where dangers fell, has never 
lost its pow'r, 

For never, in an evil deed, has this good arm been 
raised — 

And now it sinks to peaceful rest— the Lord of Hosts 
be praised. 

What ? Has the lamp gone out, boys V I scarce can 
see its ray — 

But, let it go ! I need it not ! Go put my tools away. 

Now I enjoy a better air, the lamp shines full and free, 
And from a brightly-lighted room a comrade becks 

to me; 
I look into the Perfect Mine, and sweetest joys unfold 




19(1 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 






Where the old picks are hanging against a wall of 

gold ; 
And mines that ope' with gates of pearl before my 

vision play — 
The cage is trembling on the rise— go put my tools 

away. 

Down from the top a beauteous light in richest splen- 
dor shines. 
The light that ofttimes reached my heart within 

earth's gloomy mines; 
It tells me that upon the earth my toiling days are 

done- 
It tells me of a victory by faithful spirits won. 
Jehovah's cage moves swiftly on, up toward the Per- 
fect Day- 
Farewell, old friends! I'm— going— out! Go— put— 
my tools- away ! 




> 



> 



IDLE RHYMINGS, 197 




t 



"OLD FRANK SMITH," 

Killed at Shiloh. Writton on tlip oooasion ofa Reunion of his 
Rfglment, the J3d Ohio. 

They will come with happy greetings, 

Those gallant men and true — 
Those loyal hearts that bravely beat 

Beneath the Union blue; 
Once again in ,i<»yful tumult 

We may hear their he irty cheer, 
But 07ie voice will still be missing, 

Dear "old Frank" will not be here. 

From the memory's fondest fancies 

Come, like gems of brightest ray, 
Thoughts of those exciting moments 

Ere the brave boys marched away ; 
Up the years, so fast receding, 

Once again the scene draws near, 
Now a brave platoon is broken — 

Dear "Old Frank" will not be here. 

Oft was heard, in mirthful story, 

By the camp-fire's ruddy light. 
That droll voice, a joy diffusing. 

Far into the merry night; 
From that far-off scene the echoes 

Fall melodious to the ear. 
But that voice has long been silent — 

Dear "Old Frank" will not be here. 

Brave old man — no thought of danger 

Could subdue the surging fii-e 
Of that heart, while tales of peril 




198 



IDLE BHYMINGS. 




Served that spirit to inspire; 
On the distant field of Shiloh 

There was one who knew not fear, 
Now he sleeps beside the river — 

Dear "Old Frank" will not be here. 

But a voice rides on the zephyrs 

From the mansions of the sky — 
Hark, brave boys, and hear its greeting, 

'T is a comrad« draweth nigh ; 
We may hear its glad "hozannas," 

Like a mighty battle chenr, 
Now they tremble in the distance — 

Dear "Old Frank" will not be here. 

Let the cheers ring for the living. 
Let the tears fall for the dead ; 

Brightest wreaths of woven laurel 
Lay above each hero's head ; 

Let the memory of their virtues 
Mingle with the falling tear, 

Though it be a joyful meeting- 
Dear "Old Frank" will not be here. 

"THEY TELL ME GRANT IS DYING I" 




Speak not to me of noble deeds weak mortal efforts 

crowning. 
While on the face of glory's page the very skies are 

frowning; 
Beyond the limit of our dreams the hideous fact is 

glaring. 



> 



V 



IDLE lillYMlNGS. l->-^ 




t 



And, in the time of brightest liope, there comes a fate 
unsparing; 

The echoes from a thousand hills are calling and re- 
plying- 

Hark! Is it real? Can it beV They tell me Grant 
is dying. 

Speak not to me of mortal fame, or deeds of martial 
glory — 

Though sweetly sung in poet's rhyme, or told in 
graphic story; 

I sing of one who stands to-day upon Death's gloomy 
portal — 

His form mav vanish from our sight, his deeds re- 
main—immortal. 

Yet soft and sad the Spring-time breeze, among the 
branches sighing, 

Convey a startling tale to me— they tell me Grant is 
dying. 

That eye which on the steady line was seen so often 
flashing. 

That brave heart which unshaken stood amid the 
battle's clashing. 

Must fall at last, as when the sun, the western waters 
drinking. 

His mid-day reign of glory spent— to peoceful rest is 
sinking; 

But tell me not the mournful tale my soul is e'er de- 
nying— 

I cannot see, in failing flesh, the brave old hero 
dying. 

The stately ship which rides the seas may sink be-' 
neath the billows, 




200 IDLE BHYMIXGS. 



Or the mountain ea^le fluttering down, may die be- 
neath the willows; 

The world looks on and calls it death — for these are 
gone forever — 

Frail, broken vessels, sinking down, beneath life's 
rapid river; 

But now what form is stricken down? A mighty 
nation crying, 

Conveys this dread intelligence — the mighty Grant 
IS dying. 

A halo hangs about the couch whereon the hero lin- 
gers. 

As death imprints his pallid seal with stern, relent- 
less fingers. 

And 'round that wan and suffering form proclaims 
anew the story 

Which, through the dark and troublous years, en- 
shrined that name in glory: 

That form through many a gloomy scene — the souls 
of brave men trying. 

Has passed unscathed, but now, at last — they tell me 
Grant is dying. 

Dying? Not while Freedom lives, shall our Ulysses 
perish, 

That name, so full of noble deeds, brave hearts shall 
ever cherish ; 

And where the flag of Union waves, o'er mountain- 
lake or river. 

Will live, in every loyal heart, the name of Gi'ant for- 
ever. 

My heart repels the startling thought— Death's boast- 
ful claim denying, 

'T is but to mock a glorious fame to tell me Grant is 
dying. 




J. 



V 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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^ ^Av-^....,-,.^ 



